The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

stories  alleged,  yet  he  might  almost  as  well  do 
so,  for  the  slightest  touch  will  cause  their  needle- 
like  barbed  points  to  adhere  to  any  soft  surface, 
and  they  are  pulled  out  and  carried  away  by 
the  enemy  as  souvenirs  of  a  fruitless  encounter 
far  more  difficult  to  get  rid  of  than  to  acquire. 

Few  of  the  woodland  animals  are  unaware  of 
this,  and  consequently  nothing  but  the  foolish- 
ness of  youth,  or  the  desperation  of  extreme 
hunger,  will  lead  any  beast  of  prey  to  forget 
the  warning  of  the  rattling  quills  and  leap  upon 
their  tender-fleshed  but  bristling  owner.  Some 
of  the  smaller  ones,  like  the  fisher  marten,  do, 
however,  get  him  by  strategy, — creeping  be- 
neath the  snow  in  winter  and  seizing  his  unpro- 
tected throat  or  belly  in  a  fatal  nip.  Against 
such  an  attack,  by  what  soldiers  would  call 
"  sapping  and  mining,"  the  poor  porcupine  can 
make  little  defense. 

A  good  many  bugs  and  some  caterpillars  and 
crustaceans  have  an  armament  somewhat  similar 
to  that  of  the  "  fretful  porcupine,"  but  these 
behave  more  like  the  hedgehog,  simply  rolling 
up  so  that  their  points  stand  out  in  every  direc- 

*>$  126  &* 


Birds  and  Beasts  that  Bluff 

r 

tion  and  defy  the  enemy  to  find  an  exposed  point 
for  attack. 

There  is  one  sort  of  fish,  however,  represented 
by  several  species  in  Northern  seas,  as  well  as 
many  in  the  tropics,  which  combines  a  strong 
disposition  to  bluff  with  a  very  good  "  hand." 
This  is  the  tribe  of  globe-fish  or  porcupine  fish, 
of  which  the  little  puffer  or  swell-doodle  of  our 
Atlantic  coast  is  a  good  example. 

These  fishes  when  quiet  look  much  like  others, 
except  that  they  have  a  rough,  leathery  skin 
instead  of  a  scaly  one,  and  are  everywhere  (ex- 
cept along  the  abdomen)  covered  with  bristle- 
like  appendages.  Let  one  of  them  be  alarmed 
in  any  way,  however,  and  an  almost  instan- 
taneous change  takes  place.  It  sucks  in  water 
by  rapid  gulps  until  it  swells  into  a  ball  studded 
with  stiff  spikes.  In  this  condition  it  rises  to 
the  surface  of  the  water  and  spins  and  bobs 
about,  giving  queer  audible  grunts,  and  making 
a  most  extraordinary  and  to  our  eyes  comical 
appearance. 

This  is  enough  to  make  'most  any  thought- 
ful fish  repent  the  error  of  its  intention,  and 

^  127  ^ 


BIOLOGY 

LIBRARY 

G 


THE  WIT  OF  THE  WILD 


if  at, 


d 

O 

0) 

a 


i 
I 


THE 
WIT  OF   THE   WILD 


By 
ERNEST     INGERSOLL 

<) 

Author   of  "The  Life  of  Mammals," 

"Wild  Neighbors,"  "Wild  Life  of 

Orchard  and  Field,"   Etc. 


Illustrated 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1906 


BIOLOGY 

LIBRARY 

6 


COPYRIGHT,  1906,  BY 

ERNEST    INGERSOLL 

Published,  September.  1906 


To 
HELEN 

The  Chatelaine 
of 

Rim  rocks 


383459 


Prefatory  Note 

r 

THE  substance  of  many  of  the  chapters  in  this 
little  book  first  appeared  as  articles  in  the 
Sunday  edition  of  The  World,  New  York;  in 
The  Field,  of  London,  and  in  The  Youth's 
Companion,  of  Boston ;  and  the  author  acknowl- 
edges with  cordial  thanks  the  courtesy  of  the 
publishers  of  these  periodicals  in  permitting 
him  to  revise  and  make  renewed  use  of  the 

material. 

E.  L 


Contents 


PA.OB 

The  Way  of  a  Weasel 1 

Madame  Redbelt 13 

Life  Insurance  for  Wasps 26 

The  Squirrel's  Thrift,  and  How  It  Was 

Learned    ..........  87 

The  Seamy  Side  of  Bird-Life    ....  49 

Three  Tragical  Bird-Romances       ...  59 

A  Tiny  Man-o'-War 70 

My  Snake-Stick        88 

Animals  that  Advertise      . 102 

Animals  that  Wear  Disguises    .     .     . 
Birds  and  Beasts  that  Bluff      ... 

A  Good  Habit  Gone  Wrong      ....  182 

Animals  that  Set  Traps 141 

Animal  Partnerships 151 

The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  Will    ...  162 
<o$  ix  §+> 


Contents 

r 

PAOB 

Birds  of  a  Feather 186 

Do  Animals  "Commit  Suicide"?    .     .     .  196 

A  Turn-Coat  of  the  Woods 211 

The  Biggest  Bird's-Nest  and  Its  Maker  226 

The  Phoebe  at  Home 237 

The  Haymakers  of  the  Snow  Peaks     .     .  250 

A  Kitten  at  School 262 

Catching  Menhaden  off  Mont  auk   .     .     .  £70 
Gull  Dick  .  281 


Illustrations 

r 

Mother  Phoebe  and  her  little  ones      .    Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGH 

A  squirrel  in  the  door  of  his  storehouse  46 
Chickadee's  nest  in  the  top  of  a  hollow 

stump 52 

A  ruined  bird  house 56 

Portuguese  man-o'-war 72 

A  copperhead,  drawing  himself  into  a  coil  94 
A  twig-like  walking-stick  insect  .  .  .118 
A  bluffing  sphinx  caterpillar  .  .  .  .124 
"  That  harmless  braggart,  the  hog-nosed 

snake" 128 

Two  opossums  feigning  death  ....  134 
Sapsucker  work  on  an  apple  tree  .  .  .148 
Nests  of  wild  eave,  or  cliff  swallows  .  .192 
The  winter  castle  of  the  muskrat  .  .  .  204 
The  changeable  tree-frog  .  .  .  ,  .  220 

Phoebe's  nest 246 

"If  we  keep  quite  still,  sister,  he  won't 

see  us  on  this  old  gray  log " 
xi  §0 


The  Way  of  a  Weasel 

r 

AS  I  was  hurrying  down  the  path  past 
/%  my  neighbor's  summer  lodge,  "  Slab- 
-* — ^^  sides,"  at  the  edge  of  the  rocky  woods, 
this  morning,  I  heard  a  commotion  in  the  brush, 
and  an  instant  later  saw  rushing  across  the 
road  ahead  of  me  a  pullet  closely  followed  by  a 
weasel,  the  latter  going  very  easily  as  compared 
with  the  chicken's  frantic  haste. 

My  neighbor  happened  to  be  standing  by 
his  doorstep,  and,  running  forward  to  meet  the 
pair,  stamped  his  foot  on  the  weasel  just  an 
instant  after  it  had  leaped  upon  the  hen,  whose 
gray  feathers  were  already  flying.  The 
marauder's  first  stroke  had  had  almost  the 
deadly  effect  of  a  charge  of  shot,  and  although 
the  pullet  struggled  away  into  the  shelter  of 
some  vines  (not  thinking  of  coming  to  us  for 
protection),  I  suspect  she  never  got  well. 

Reaching  down,   my  neighbor  released  and 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

lifted  the  weasel  by  the  nape  of  the  neck,  and 
held  him  out  at  arm's  length  between  his  thumb 
and  finger — an  image  of  impotent  rage.  His 
head  was  like  a  round  wedge,  his  ears  lay  flat 
back,  his  round  black  eyes  glowed  like  jet,  and 
the  white,  long-whiskered  lips,  flecked  with 
blood,  were  drawn  back  from  a  jagged  row  of 
needle-pointed  teeth,  ivory-white,  in  a  snarl  that 
portrayed  a  prisoner  caught  but  not  con- 
quered. He  writhed  and  squirmed  in  the  man's 
firm  grasp,  trying  his  best  to  get  his  teeth 
into  the  detaining  fingers,  and  did  succeed  in 
scratching  them  with  the  nails  of  a  paw  already 
red  with  the  blood  of  the  wounded  pullet. 

It  would  be  hard  to  make  a  finer  picture  of 
baffled  fury  than  that  little  carnivore  presented. 
He  knew  he  was  doomed,  for  he  remembered 
other  chickens  he  had  caught  and  killed ;  and  if 
he  had  acted  like  a  coward  he  would  simply 
have  been  drowned  in  the  horse-trough  or  had 
his  brains  dashed  out  on  a  rock.  But  his  bold 
spirit  against  overwhelming  odds — his  un- 
quenchable courage — won  him  a  nobler  fate; 
and  calling  his  dog  my  friend  gave  the  bandit 

+§2  $+> 


The  Way  of  a  Weasel 

r 

a  chance  for  a  hero's  victory  or  death  in  hon- 
orable battle. 

The  little  weasel,  not  one-twentieth  the  weight 
of  the  terrier,  accepted  the  challenge  without 
a  breath  of  hesitation.  The  instant  he  was 
thrown  down  before  the  dog,  he  faced  the  foe 
with  fur  on  end,  feet  braced  and  jaws  wide  open 
— never  a  thought  of  running  away  in  his 
plucky  heart. 

The  terrier  rushed  in  only  to  have  the  weasel 
leap  straight  at  his  open  mouth  and  fasten  its 
teeth  in  his  nose.  This  was  disconcerting,  and 
the  dog  squealed  with  surprise  and  pain ;  but  he 
also  was  courageous,  and,  shaking  off  his  tor- 
mentor, seized  it  again,  only  to  have  it  wriggle 
a  second  time  out  of  his  jaws  and  make  a  valiant 
effort  to  escape  from  this  unequal  contest.  The 
dog  darted  after  it  and  got  a  fresh  hold,  but 
so  did  his  undaunted  and  pertinacious  foe,  and 
Nip  had  to  whirl  the  weasel  round  and  round 
his  head,  while  it  hung  to  his  torn  lip  by  its 
teeth,  before  he  could  shake  it  loose  and  a  third 
time  seize  its  body  in  an  effective  grip.  Even 
when,  crushed  at  last  under  major  force,  the 
**$  3  fc> 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

weasel  lay  at  the  point  of  death  among  the 
bruised  and  bloody  weeds,  an  indomitable  spirit 
still  glared  from  the  black  eyes,  the  sharp  teeth 
were  bared  as  defiantly  as  ever  in  the  face  of  his 
big  conqueror,  and  it  died  like  a  hero. 

These  weasels,  which  are  substantially  the 
same  as  the  European  stoats,  whose  coats, 
turning  white  (except  the  black  tail- tip)  in 
winter,  in  northern  countries,  give  us  the  "  er- 
mine "  of  the  furriers,  are  one  of  the  few  kinds 
of  wild  quadrupeds  which  seem  not  only  to 
maintain  themselves  against  civilization,  but 
actually  to  profit  by  it.  This  they  can  do 
because  of  their  small  size,  their  clever  wits, 
developed  by  a  life  of  constant  cunning,  their 
hardihood  and  fearlessness. 

Finding  some  cranny  to  their  liking  among 
the  rocks  or  within  an  old  stone  wall,  a  weasel 
family  will  furnish  it  with  bedding  of  dried 
grass  and  make  a  home  as  snug  as  it  is  secure. 
An  exceedingly  narrow  doorway  will  serve 
them,  for  their  loose  and  lithe  bodies  can  creep 
through  a  very  small  and  tortuous  aperture, 
which  may  be  defended  against  any  enemy  un- 


The  Way  of  a  Weasel 

r 

able  to  tear  the  place  apart.  A  snake,  indeed, 
is  the  only  hostile  thing  (except  another  wea- 
sel) that  can  get  into  such  an  intricate  den. 
I  believe  a  weasel  would  not  hesitate  an  instant 
in  attacking  it  if  it  came ;  and  I  guess  he  would 
overcome  the  worst  snake  of  our  woods.  I  have 
never  seen  a  battle  between  a  serpent  and  an 
ermine,  but  I  have  no  doubt  the  mammal,  small 
as  he  is,  could  avoid  the  reptile's  fangs  by  his 
leaping  agility — for  he  is  acrobat  and  contor- 
tionist in  one — and  destroy  it  by  his  lancet-like 
teeth. 

By  the  same  token,  as  Irishmen  say,  the 
animal  is  able  to  follow  the  mice  and  other  of 
its  lesser  prey  along  their  runways,  and  into 
their  narrow  and  winding  burrows  and  hiding- 
places,  careless  of  depth,  or  darkness  or  danger. 

It  is  characteristic  of  so  courageous  a  crea- 
ture that  it  should  be  a  faithful  ally.  A  pair 
will  stand  affectionately  and  nobly  by  each 
other  in  danger,  and  a  weasel  mother  will  de- 
fend her  young  to  the  last  gasp.  I  once  met 
in  the  spring,  in  the  woods,  a  family  of  minks 
— only  another  sort  of  weasel — consisting  of  a 
*$  5  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

mother  and  four  little  ones,  perhaps  a  quarter 
grown.  In  the  first  surprise  the  mother  darted 
under  a  rock,  whining  a  danger-signal  to  her 
children,  one  of  which  I  knocked  on  the  head 
to  add  as  an  instructive  specimen  to  my  collec- 
tion of  skins;  while  the  others,  too  young  to 
understand  their  danger,  dodged  about  among 
the  leaves. 

The  instant  I  stooped  to  pick  up  the  dead 
kitten  the  mother  rushed  at  my  hand,  and  I 
had  to  draw  back  quickly  to  escape  her.  She 
stopped  at  my  feet  and  sat  up  on  her  haunches, 
her  lips  drawn  back,  her  eyes  gleaming,  and 
every  hair  on  end,  whining  and  daring  me  to 
come  on.  I  stood  perfectly  still,  and  in  a  min- 
ute she  dropped  down  on  all  fours,  and,  always 
keeping  her  eye  upon  me — a  giant  to  her  appre- 
hensive view — coolly  began  to  collect  her  babies, 
and  carry  them  off,  one  by  one,  in  her  mouth, 
to  a  place  of  safety  under  a  rock,  where  per- 
haps was  their  home.  A  lion  could  not  have 
shown  more  clean  courage  and  indifference  to 
danger  than  that  small  mink  mother. 

IA.  relative  of  mine,  a  preacher  and  truthful, 
+§  6  £» 


The  Way  of  a  Weasel 

? 

relates  that  he  was  sitting  in  an  upper  room  of 
his  house  at  Easthampton,  Mass.,  one  after- 
noon, when  he  saw  a  weasel  come  up  the  stairs, 
enter  the  room  and  saunter  about,  examining 
everything  within  reach  of  his  nose,  including 
the  parson's  square-toed  boots,  with  careful 
attention.  Having  completed  this  survey,  it 
quietly  withdrew,  pattered  softly  down  stairs, 
and  the  dominie  went  on  with  his  sermon. 
Whether  his  visitor  also  went  to  hear  the  ser- 
mon, I  do  not  know ;  and  it  is  a  pity,  for  then 
perhaps  we  should  learn  whether  it  really  were 
possible  to  "  catch  a  weasel  asleep." 

Ferocity  marks  all  that  the  weasel  does.  He 
constantly  kills  more  than  he  can  eat,  seem- 
ingly just  for  the  joy  of  seizing  and  killing, 
and  a  pair  that  make  their  residence  near  a 
poultry-yard  will  destroy  the  flock  in  a  short 
time  if  not  prevented.  They  are  the  terror  of 
the  wild  birds — one  of  the  worst  of  their  day- 
light foes,  especially  for  the  ground-keeping 
birds ;  and  here  again  they  arouse  the  anger  of 
the  sportsman,  whose  wild  poultry,  the  quails 
and  grouse  and  woodcock,  they  kill  before  he 

+$7  fc 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

himself  can  get  a  chance  to  do  so  with  his  gun. 
I  have  known  one  recently  to  conquer  a  half- 
grown  house-cat. 

Thus,  between  their  coveting  the  value  of  his 
fur  and  their  vexation  at  his  depredations  upon 
the  farmyard  and  the  game-preserve,  most  men 
are  at  enmity  with  the  weasel  and  compel  him 
to  be  on  his  guard  whenever  he  goes  abroad. 
Yet  so  secretive  and  sly  is  he,  so  exceedingly 
alert,  quick,  and  courageous,  that  he  maintains 
himself  in  great  numbers  everywhere  outside 
of  towns;  and  even  in  large  villages  you  may 
find  his  tracks  on  the  snow  on  winter  mornings, 
— "  a  chain  that  is  blown  away  by  the  wind  and 
melted  by  the  sun,  links  with  pairs  of  parallel 
dots  the  gaps  of  farm  fences,  and  winds 
through  and  along  walls  and  zigzag  lines  of 
rails,"  as  Rowland  Robinson  says. 

Civilization,  indeed,  has  helped  rather  than 
hurt  him  and  his  tribe.  His  food  does  not  con- 
sist altogether,  or  perhaps  mainly,  of  birds, 
but  even  if  it  did  he  would  be  benefited  by  the 
human  clearing  and  cultivation  of  the  wilder- 
ness, because  these  bring  about  a  multiplica- 

*$  8  5» 


The  Way  of  a  Weasel 

r 

tion  of  the  total  number  of  birds  in  a  locality, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  a  few  species  are  less- 
ened or  extinguished.  But  man's  operations 
also  tend  to  increase  the  total  of  small  mam- 
mals, such  as  rabbits,  gophers,  squirrels,  and 
mice,  upon  all  of  which  the  weasel  preys  with 
avidity,  and  none  of  which  can  wholly  escape 
him,  for  he  can  race  the  swiftest  of  them  with 
success,  can  pursue  the  squirrels  to  the  topmost 
tree-boughs,  though  he  dare  not  follow  them 
in  lofty  jumping,  and  can  chase  into  their  ut- 
most burrows  those  creatures  that  seek  safety 
in  holes  or  by  digging.  Of  mice  he  kills  hun- 
dreds in  the  course  of  a  year,  no  doubt,  and 
thus  repays  the  husbandman  for  the  chickens 
and  ducks  he  steals,  and  he  will  clear  a  barn 
of  rats  in  a  short  time.  The  chipmunk  is  a 
tidbit  he  is  extremely  fond  of,  and  probably 
more  of  these  pretty  ground-squirrels  fall  be- 
neath his  teeth  than  in  any  other  single  way. 

Of  what,  indeed,  is  this  bold  little  carnivore 
afraid? — for  fear  may  honorably  quicken  the 
beating  of  a  heart  where  cowardice  finds  no 
residence. 

«•$  9  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

In  the  New  England,  or  Middle  States,  al- 
most nothing  exists  to  alarm  him,  except  man 
and  his  guns,  dogs,  and  traps.  Where  wild- 
cats range  the  woods,  he  no  dcubt  falls  into 
their  grasp  now  and  then,  and  then  sells  his  life 
as  dearly  as  possible ;  and  that  he  would  "  die 
game  "  even  within  the  jaws  of  a  wolf  one  may 
be  sure  who  has  seen  his  sturdy,  undaunted 
struggle  with  a  dog.  I  have  read  and  have  seen 
pictured  accounts  of  birds  of  prey  having 
seized  weasels  of  one  kind  or  another  that  in 
turn  fastened  upon  the  bird's  throat  or  body, 
and  so  were  carried  up  into  the  air  until  they 
had  gnawed  the  bird's  life  away,  and  both  came 
tumbling  to  earth  locked  in  mutual  murder. 
It  is  quite  possible  something  of  this  sort  may 
occasionally  happen,  but  I  have  never  seen  it, 
nor  can  I  find  any  evidence  of  a  predatory  bird 
in  this  country  ever  having  seized  a  weasel, 
even  by  mistake,  for  something  easier  to  handle. 

This  animal's  endowment  of  especial  valor 
seems,  therefore,  superlative,  and  tending  to 
needless  slaughter  and  cruelty  in  nature.  But 
this  quality  is  probably  an  inheritance  from 

*$  10  So* 


The  Way  of  a  Weasel 

r 

the  distant  past,  when  the  race  of  weasels  dwelt 
in  the  midst  of  a  world  of  fighting  against  con- 
ditions and  enemies  which  they  have  survived 
by  means  of  these  very  virtues;  and  it  may  be 
that  here,  as  sometimes  happens  elsewhere,  vir- 
tues have  changed  into  vices  through  change 
of  exterior  circumstances. 

Yet  this  leads  us  into  what  is  really  a  wrong 
and  illogical  position,  for  what  we  are  calling 
vices,  namely,  the  weasel's  acts  of  rapacity  and 
unnecessary  slaughter,  are  only  so  from  our 
point  of  view  and  in  his  relation  to  us. 

Apart  from  the  fact  that  the  excessive 
slaughter  of  which  we  call  him  "  guilty  "  may 
have  a  beneficent  purpose  and  effect  in  keep- 
ing down  the  too  rapid  multiplication  of  mice 
and  other  noxious  pests  whose  other  natural 
enemies  have  been  unduly  diminished  in  culti- 
vated regions,  it  must  be  remembered  that  he 
is  doing  only  what  it  is  the  business  and  need 
of  his  life  to  do;  and  that  we  hate  him  princi- 
pally because  he  becomes  a  rival  and  interferes 
with  our  own  plans  in  the  same  direction. 
Hence  the  vengeful  spirit  in  which  my  farmer- 

*ff  11  So» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

friend  this  morning  damned  him  and  hurled 
him  down  before  his  dog  was  as  illogical  as  it 
was  unkind. 

On  the  whole,  philosophically  considered,  the 
difference  between  the  weasel's  acts  and  our 
own  cannot  be  regarded  as  really  great — at  any 
rate  to  the  victims! 


12 


Madame  Redbelt 

r 

I    WAS   sitting  on  the  stone  wall  waiting 
for  the  August  sun  to  knock  off  its  day's 
work,   and  idly  watching  a  gray   spider 
that  had  spread  a  gauzy  net  across  an  opening 
among  the  loose  slabs,  when  Madame  Redbelt 
came  and  sat  down  beside  me. 

I  looked  for  trouble  at  once,  for  Madame 
Redbelt  is  a  wasp,  and  many  wasps  have  a  habit 
not  only  of  dining  off  spiders,  but  of  preferring 
them  as  food  for  their  babies,  which  has  made 
hard  feeling  between  the  two  branches  of  the 
insect  race,  from  which  only  the  most  enlight- 
ened members  are  free.  Therefore  I  was  anx- 
ious, but  when  I  saw  the  visitor  coolly  running 
about  underneath  the  web,  while  the  gray  spider 
peered  down  with  languid  wonder  at  her  activ- 
ity in  the  heat,  apparently  not  fearing  her  at 
all,  I  aroused  myself  to  sharper  attention. 
^  13  ^ 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

? 

Then  I  saw  that  she  was  not  one  of  the 
broad-winged  brown  wasps  so  numerous  about 
this  house  in  the  edge  of  the  woods,  but  a 
slender,  thread-waisted  one,  exceedingly  active 
afoot,  and  carrying  her  wings  like  two  slats 
along  her  back;  in  fact,  each  was  folded  up 
like  a  fan  of  three  sticks. 

Right  behind  the  flexible  rod  of  a  waist, 
where  the  body  swelled  again,  was  a  bright  red 
band ;  and  so  I  called  her  Madame  Redbelt,  for 
I  did  not  then  know  her  book-name,  which  is 
Ammophila  urnaria.  You  may  read  scientific 
history  of  her,  if  you  wish,  in  that  fine  treatise, 
"The  Instincts  and  Habits  of  the  Solitary 
Wasps,"  by  George  W.  and  Elizabeth  G. 
Peckham. 

A  wide  crack  in  the  top  of  the  wall,  under 
the  web,  was  filled  with  dry  earth  in  which  a 
few  small  weeds  grew,  and  this  tiny  garden 
seemed  greatly  to  interest  the  little  lady,  who 
darted  hither  and  thither  examining  every 
inch. 

Suddenly  she  halted  and  began  to  scratch 
with'  her  foremost  feet,  sending  the  grains  of 


Madame  Redbelt 

r 

sand  flying  backward  and  deepening  a  hole 
precisely  as  does  my  fox-terrier  Waggles  when 
he  hopes  he  has  found  the  hiding  place  of  a 
chipmunk. 

In  a  minute  or  so  she  changed  her  method 
and  began  to  dig  with  her  jaws.  She  would 
scrape  down  a  quantity  of  earth,  gather  it 
into  a  bundle  between  her  chin  and  elbows, 
so  to  speak,  and  then  backing  out,  would  carry 
it  well  back  from  the  entrance  and  fling  it  away 
with  a  quick  flirt,  as  though  glad  to  be  rid  of  it. 
Now  and  then  she  would  pause  and  choose  where 
she  would  next  drop  her  load,  or  stop  and  push 
away  the  loose  earth  to  prevent  its  rolling  back 
toward  her  trench,  and  all  together  her  move- 
ments were  most  human  and  interesting. 

I  leaned  down  close  to  her  without  her  caring, 
yet  every  few  minutes  she  would  stop  work 
and  walk  all  about  her  narrow  domain,  and 
sometimes  make  short  flights  here  and  there, 
as  if  to  make  sure  no  danger  were  near;  but 
these  halts  were  brief,  and  at  the  end  of  twenty 
minutes  or  so  she  had  almost  disappeared  in 
her  excavation — just  the  tip  of  her  body  with 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

its  sting  showing  at  the  top  of  the  ground,  and 
two  hind  feet  clinging  to  the  surface. 

Now  it  was  plain  why  her  wings  were  folded 
so  snugly  on  her  back — the  ordinary  shape 
would  never  do  for  a  miner,  like  this  industrious 
little  lady. 

She  worked  on  as  hard  as  ever,  bringing  up 
earth  and  pebbles,  piling  them  in  a  ring  around 
her,  and  then  diving  after  more;  and  all  the 
time  she  sang  a  low,  contented,  humming  song 
which  told  of  hope  and  joy.  Why  not?  She 
was  constructing  a  home — a  place  for  her 
babies,  where  the  first  object  of  her  existence, 
the  limit  of  her  desire  and  ambition,  should  be 
satisfied.  The  sun  shone,  the  ground  was  dry 
and  warm,  no  parasites  were  near  to  make  her 
anxious  nor  enemies  to  alarm  her.  Why 
shouldn't  she  sing  of  her  content  and  glad- 
ness ? 

For  some  time  then  I  noticed  that  she  went 
no  deeper,  so  I  concluded  that  she  was  hollow- 
ing out  a  chamber  at  the  end  of  her  sloping 
drift,  and  I  was  right. 

It  was  just  half  an  hour  by  the  watch  from 
*$  16  $o 


Madame  Redbelt 

r 

the  time  she  began  (5  p.m.)  until  she  quit  dig- 
ging. Then  Madame  Redbelt  looked  tired  as 
she  shook  and  brushed  the  dust  from  her  black 
satin  dress  and  sauntered  out  into  the  sunshine 
to  rest  a  while. 

But  this  was  only  the  first  stage  of  her  pro- 
ceedings. Soon  she  was  running  about  with 
her  head  down,  evidently  in  search  of  something. 
Every  pebble  she  came  to  she  would  measure 
with  her  feelers,  as  a  workman  uses  a  pair  of 
calipers.  Presently  one  seemed  to  suit  her  and 
she  picked  it  up  in  her  jaws  and  trotted  off  in 
great  haste.  Now,  try  to  lift  a  stone  twice  as 
big  as  your  head  and  you  will  appreciate  the 
strength  of  this  tiny  miner,  who  carried  her 
burden  in  her  teeth  a  good  deal  easier  than  you 
could  carry  a  proportionate  weight  in  your 
arms — indeed,  you  could  scarcely  lift  a  propor- 
tionate weight. 

Running  straight  to  her  hole  she  dropped 
the  pebble  into  its  mouth,  where  it  lodged 
neatly  in  the  funnel-shaped  top,  forming  a  plug, 
or  cover.  I  could  see,  however,  that  a  crevice 
remained  at  one  side,  and  Madame  Redbelt  saw 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

it,  too,  and  at  once  found  a  smaller  pebble  with 
which  to  stop  the  gap. 

Then  turning  her  back  she  scraped  over  the 
stones  a  quantity  of  loose  earth  until  all  traces 
of  a  hole  were  concealed.  And  now,  having  shut 
and  locked  her  door,  Madame  Redbelt  ran 
'round  and  'round  as  if  to  make  sure  nobody 
had  seen  her  do  it,  and  then  flew  away. 

I  sat  watching  until  dark.  Every  half  an 
hour  or  so  the  owner  came  back,  looked  at  her 
property  and  left  it  untouched.  Then  I  put 
some  bits  of  leaf  on  the  spot,  so  that  I  might 
know  of  any  disturbance,  and  said  good-night. 

Next  morning  (the  28th)  the  leaves  had  been 
thrown  aside,  but  I  saw  nothing  of  Madame 
Redbelt  until  late  afternoon,  when  she  half  dug 
another  tunnel,  close  by  the  first  one.  This 
she  finished  on  the  29th,  but  I  did  not  see  her 
again  until  the  third  morning  (30th)  about 
eight  o'clock  (when  the  sun  first  reached  that 
spot),  when  I  found  her  busily  closing  a  new 
nest  between  the  other  two.  She  put  into  it  a 
pebble  that  nearly  filled  it,  then  slowly  packed 
armfuls  of  clay,  bits  of  stick  and  stone  over  it, 

^  18  §0 


Madame  Redbelt 

r 

forcing  the  latter  well  into  the  ground.  Often 
she  would  try  a  bit  that  would  not  fit  the  place 
to  her  liking,  and  it  was  amusing  to  see  her 
toss  it  aside  with  an  impatient  gesture,  just 
as  a  man  does  when  choosing  proper  stones  for 
a  wall. 

She  was  very  suspicious  now,  and  at  my  least 
movement  would  dart  away,  but  quickly  return. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  she  finished  filling 
in  the  nest,  and  then  she  departed  for  half  an 
hour  as  if  to  rest,  and  probably  to  get  a  drink, 
which  such  wasps  take  frequently.  In  her  re- 
turning, by  the  way,  she  almost  always  arrived 
from  a  certain  direction  and  first  alighted  on  a 
particular  stone,  where  she  cautiously  surveyed 
the  land  before  going  in  a  roundabout  way  to 
her  holes. 

At  10.30  a.m.  she  began  a  fourth  tunnel 
within  an  inch  or  two  of  the  others,  and  worked 
at  it  with  feverish  haste,  often  lying  on  her  back 
to  dig,  until  the  chamber  was  completed,  as  be- 
fore, in  just  thirty  minutes. 

She  then  went  out  upon  a  warm  stone  and 
quietly  rested  for  a  few  minutes,  then  ran  away 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

into  the  grass,  but  by  11.20  she  was  back  again 
and  carefully  examining  every  nook  and  corner 
of  her  estate,  now  and  then  entering  and  repair- 
ing the  two  open  holes.  Her  movements  were 
quick  and  cautious,  and  my  least  change  of 
attitude  alarmed  her,  whereas  when  she  was  dig- 
ging she  seemed  careless  of  my  presence;  and 
soon  she  disappeared,  leaving  the  last  tunnel 
quite  open.  This,  I  fancied,  was  because  she 
had  been  unable  to  find  any  suitable  cork,  so 
I  gathered  a  few  little  pebbles  of  about  the 
right  size  and  laid  them  near  the  nest,  when  to 
my  dismay  one  rolled  halfway  down  the  sloping 
tunnel. 

Now  that  her  quarters  seemed  prepared  some- 
thing interesting  was  likely  to  follow,  so  I  got 
an  umbrella  and  stayed  in  the  hot  sun  to  see 
what  it  might  be.  A  half  hour  of  patience  met 
its  reward.  Suddenly  Madame  Redbelt  alighted 
upon  the  accustomed  stone,  astride  of  a  smooth, 
yellow  caterpillar,  gripped  near  its  head  in  her 
jaws. 

I  have  never  been  able,  among  the  rocky 
ridges  here,  to  follow  and  watch  an  Ammo- 
«•  20  $•» 


Madame  Redbelt 

r 

phila  catch  a  caterpillar,  but  I  know  from  what 
others  have  seen  how  it  is  done.  The  capture 
maybe  made  so  far  from  the  nest  that  an  hour  or 
more  must  be  spent  in  bringing  home  the  prey. 

When  the  wasp  finds  a  caterpillar  she  springs 
upon  it  and  a  fight  for  life  begins.  The  poor 
worm  leaps  and  curls  and  thrashes  about, 
using  every  art  and  weapon  it  possesses,  but  to 
little  avail,  for  the  wasp,  striding  over  it  and 
seizing  its  head  in  her  jaws,  drives  in  her  sting 
until  movement  ceases  and  the  caterpillar  lies 
outstretched  and  quiescent.  Sometimes  a  sin- 
gle thrust  of  the  sting  suffices,  the  poison  act- 
ing like  an  electric  shock;  sometimes  seven  or 
eight  stings  are  given  into  several  segments. 

It  all  depends  upon  whether  the  wasp  pierces 
the  central  nervous  system,  which  runs  along 
the  ventral  side  of  the  caterpillar  in  the  form  of 
a  cord  thickened  into  a  "  ganglion "  in  each 
segment.  Some  kinds  of  wasps  seem  to  know 
how  to  strike  certain  ganglia  every  time;  and 
this  wasp,  lifting  the  larva  from  the  ground  so 
that  she  may  curve  the  tip  of  her  abdomen  un- 
derneath it,  seems  to  try  to  do  so,  but  she  is 
^  21  ^ 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

by  no  means  sure  in  her  aim.  When  the  victim 
has  become  limp  and  quiet  (though  perhaps  not 
dead,  but  only  paralyzed),  the  wasp  usually 
squeezes  its  neck  in  her  jaws  until  that  part  is 
thoroughly  crushed. 

Now,  what  does  she  want  of  the  caterpillar — 
why  all  this  labor  and  trouble?  Because  a 
caterpillar,  in  her  instinct-opinion,  is  the  only 
thing  suitable  upon  which  to  lay  an  egg  that 
needs  to  be  packed  away  in  the  earthen  cham- 
ber so  carefully  prepared  for  it,  in  order  that  it 
may  hatch  in  safety ;  and  also  because  the  larva 
thus  to  be  bred  must  have  food  ready  for  it. 

Having  subdued  her  prey,  the  wasp  stands 
over  it  lengthwise,  picks  it  up  by  the  neck  in 
her  jaws  and  partly  carries,  partly  drags  it, 
going  quickly  or  slowly  according  to  its  weight 
and  the  difficulties  of  the  way;  and  if  you  in- 
terfere she  will  let  it  go  and  fight,  but  after- 
ward hunt  up  the  lost  prey  and  continue  the 
journey. 

No  animals  have  a  better  sense  of  locality 
and  direction  than  the  wasps  and  their  relatives, 
the  bees.  It  is  plain  that  they  study  the  place 
«o  22  §o 


Madame  Redbelt 

I 

where  their  nests  are,  familiarizing  themselves 
with  all  its  features.  Any  disturbance  of  these 
is  sure  to  be  noticed ;  but  experiments  designed 
to  ascertain  how  much  of  their  behavior  in  this 
respect  arises  from  discriminating  memory  and 
intelligence  have  had  varying  results. 

Prof.  Jacques  Loeb  tells  how  an  Ammophila 
laden  with  a  caterpillar  too  heavy  to  lift  off 
the  ground  went  around  the  wall  she  was  ac- 
customed to  flying  over  and  worked  her  way 
afoot  to  her  nest  by  an  unknown  route,  then 
betrayed  much  stupidity  because  the  hole  had 
been  concealed  by  a  clover-blossom.  But  other 
individuals  have  been  more  clever  at  detecting 
deceits  practiced  upon  them  by  inquisitive  natu- 
ralists. 

Madame  Redbelt  carried  her  captive  to  the 
mouth  of  the  fourth  hole,  and,  letting  it  drop, 
hastily  entered  the  nest,  where  she  at  once  ran 
against  my  fallen  pebble,  and  pulled  it  out  with- 
out more  ado. 

Doubtless  she  thought  it  a  mere  accident, 
not  noticing,  or  caring  nothing  for,  any  odor 
of  my  hand  that  may  have  lingered  about  it. 

-•$  23  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

This  done,  she  seized  the  lifeless  caterpillar 
by  its  head  and  dragged  it  backward  into  the 
hole,  humming  a  song  of  success  the  while. 
For  a  whole  minute  she  stayed  there,  doubtless 
engaged  in  producing  and  affixing  an  egg  to  the 
caterpillar's  abdomen  as  it  lay  coiled  in  its 
sepulcher. 

And  as  the  captor  came  out  and  excitedly 
crowded  stones  and  sticks  and  lumps  of  earth 
down  the  cavity,  and  finally  scratched  over  it 
the  hiding  dust,  I  pondered  upon  the  strange- 
ness of  this  arrangement — its  careless  cruelty 
and  boundless  sacrifice  of  the  present  for  the 
sake  of  a  future  the  exact  and  diligent  worker 
would  never  share — perhaps  never  see.  For 
the  worm  is  buried  there  to  serve  as  food  for  the 
larval  wasp  that,  some  sixty  hours  hence,  will 
be  hatched  from  the  egg  and  find  itself  fiercely 
hungry. 

Sometimes  this  wasp  will  take  a  pebble  in  her 
jaws  and  with  it  pound  and  smooth  the  surface 
of  the  hidden  pit,  the  better  to  destroy  traces 
of  digging. 

Since  that  afternoon  I  am  not  sure  that  I 


Madame  Redbelt 

r 

have  seen  Madame  Redbelt.  Now  and  then,  it 
is  true,  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  an  Ammophila 
flitting  about  the  stone  wall,  and  perhaps  it 
may  sometimes  have  been  she,  who  remembers — 
why  not? — the  very  hot  days  and  the  gray 
spider  overhead,  and  the  colossal  figure  that 
so  strangely  scrutinized  all  the  work  in  the 
tiny  triangular  garden  where  her  hopes  lie 
buried,  and  who  anxiously  watches  for  their 
fulfillment. 


Life  Insurance  for  Wasps 

r 

LIFE    insurance    is    an    arrangement    by 
which  the  results   of  a  person's  labor 
may  be   stored   up   for   the  benefit   of 
others  who  are  to  come  after  him.    This  is  sup- 
posed to  be,  and  is,  among  men,  a  device  of 
modern  and  the  most  civilized  society,  but  it 
has  been  practiced  in  effect  by  certain  animals 
ever  since  they  came  to  be  what  they  are. 

The  best  examples  of  animal  life  insurers 
are  to  be  found  among  those  wasps  and  bees 
which  are  called  "  solitary,"  because  they  do 
not  live  in  companies,  making  combs  or  coopera- 
tive nests  in  which  the  young  are  reared  from 
the  egg  and  cared  for  until  they  are  grown, 
which  is  the  custom  of  the  "  social "  hymen- 
opters. 

The  solitary  wasps,  on  the  other  hand,  ar- 
range single  chambers  of  one  sort  or  another 
in  which  one  egg  is  laid  and  provision  is  stored 

*$  26  §o 


Life  Insurance  for  Wasps 

r 

ready  to  be  eaten  by  the  young  one  that  will 
develop  from  the  egg,  and  which  must  spend  a 
considerable  time  in  the  confinement  of  its  nurs- 
ery before  it  has  grown  big  enough  to  go 
abroad.  This  custom  involves  some  of  the  most 
ingenious  arrangements  and  most  wonderful  in- 
stincts in  the  whole  range  of  life. 

For  example:  Last  August  I  found  in  the 
edge  of  the  woods  an  old  pail,  on  the  inside  of 
which  were  plastered  structures  of  dried  mud 
which  looked  as  if  they  had  been  made  by  braid- 
ing clay  cords  into  miniature  imitations  of  half- 
round  drain  tiles.  Each  was  as  broad  as  my 
finger,  with  walls  rather  less  than  a  sixteenth 
of  an  inch  in  thickness,  and  there  were  five 
or  six  side  by  side,  the  longest  measuring  some 
six  inches,  and  containing  five  compartments 
of  equal  length,  separated  by  thick  cross-parti- 
tions of  clay. 

These  were  the  safety-deposit  vaults  of  a 
large  black  mother-wasp,  in  which  she  had  left 
her  treasures  for  the  use  of  an  assignee  yet  un- 
born. I  recognized  them  because  I  had  been 
watching  for  a  fortnight  a  similar  mud-wasp 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

building  and  filling  similar  treasure-houses  un- 
der my  porch  roof.  The  main  difference  was, 
that  while  this  black  wasp  of  the  woods  spread 
its  cells  out  flat,  the  blue  ones  in  the  veranda 
piled  theirs  into  a  heap,  and  finally  hid  the  heap 
and  protected  it  from  enemies  under  a  general 
rough  coat  of  mud. 

As  soon  as  the  really  warm  weather  of  sum- 
mer arrives  each  of  these  wasps  (all  of  which 
are  fertile  females  that  have  survived  the  winter 
by  hibernating  in  some  snug  retreat,  and  have 
been  spending  a  month  or  two  in  elegant  leisure 
sipping  nectar  and  getting  other  dainties)  feels 
that  the  time  has  come  to  lay  her  quota  of  eggs, 
and  begins  to  build  cells  of  mud,  each  just  big 
enough  to  contain  her  own  body. 

Their  skill  in  fabricating  these  out  of  pellets 
of  clayey  earth,  mixed  with  saliva  and  drawn 
out  by  the  complicated  mouth-organs  into  rib- 
bons of  glutinous  mud  as  they  are  laid  on,  is 
admirable,  but  not  so  surprising  as  what 
follows : 

As  soon  as  the  cell  is  finished  the  fresh  open 
end  is  usually  closed  by  a  temporary  dab  of 
*>$  28  fc 


Life  Insurance  for  Wasps 

r 

mud,  to  exclude  strangers  and  mischief-makers, 
and  the  wasp  goes  hunting — takes  out  its  first 
policy  of  insurance  for  the  benefit  of  the  in- 
tended occupant  of  this  domicile. 

Before  long,  if  she  is  fortunate,  she  finds  a 
spider.  What  is  its  name  does  not  matter,  nor 
does  its  size,  so  that  it  be  not  too  large ;  but  big 
ones  are  sometimes  sheared  of  legs  or  dismem- 
bered in  order  to  be  made  manageable.  She 
darts  at  it,  whereupon  the  spider  probably 
drops  like  Newton's  apple,  by  which  ruse  it 
may  escape,  or  it  may  not.  If  it  fails  to  drop 
quickly  enough  or  far  enough  the  wasp  catches 
it  in  her  jaws,  drives  in  her  sting  once  or  twice, 
and  carries  it  off  in  the  grasp  of  her  mouth  and 
forefeet — not,  however,  directly  to  her  home. 
Instead,  she  first  alights  on  some  convenient 
perch  and  there  rolls  her  captive  about  until 
she  has  it  in  a  position  she  likes,  and  then  stings 
it  once,  deliberately  and  forcibly.  This  done 
she  picks  it  up,  takes  it  home  and  stuffs  it  down 
into  the  bottom  of  the  cell.  Then  she  rushes 
away  for  another,  seeking  one  of  the  same  kind 
as  a  preference,  but  if  they  are  scarce  catch- 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

ing  any  other  spider  not  too  large  for  her  use — 
none  are  so  big  as  to  scare  her.  Thus  in  two 
or  three  hours  of  a  July  afternoon  she  will 
pack  solidly  into  her  cell  ten  to  twenty  spiders, 
big  and  little,  until  at  last  it  can  hold  only 
one  more. 

Having  caught  this  last  one,  the  wasp  pauses 
on  her  threshold  and  performs  the  crowning 
act  for  which  all  that  has  gone  before  has  been 
simply  a  preparation.  She  deposits  and  glues 
a  single  egg  upon  the  abdomen  of  this  latest 
victim,  and  then  crowding  it  on  top  of  the  rest, 
concludes  her  labors  by  bringing  mud  and  seal- 
ing the  chamber  as  tightly  as  possible. 

This  done,  she  goes  her  way  and  leaves  her 
venture  to  its  fate,  but  next  day  she  builds  and 
stocks  a  second  chamber  close  beside  it,  or  in 
continuation  of  it,  and  so  on  until  her  number 
is  complete. 

Responsibility  for  her  young  ceases  with  the 
mother's  insurance  to  them  of  shelter  and  food 
until  they  "  come  of  age." 

Now,  what  happens  in  that  dark  cell?  Well, 
in  two  or  three  days,  depending  on  the  tem- 


Life  Insurance  for  Wasps 

r 

perature,  the  egg  hatches,  and  a  tiny  white 
grub  emerges,  which  at  once  begins  to  feed 
upon  the  nearest  spider,  eating  the  soft  parts 
first,  then  proceeding  to  the  next,  and  so  on, 
taking  the  tidbits  of  its  store  first,  and  eating 
the  harder  parts  later.  By  this  time  ten  days 
have  passed,  and  the  grub  has  grown  nearly 
as  big  as  its  room.  It  feels,  then,  that  the  time 
has  come  for  a  change,  and  spins  about  itself 
a  capsule-shaped  cocoon  of  glutinous  silk,  in 
which  it  slumbers  quietly  for  several  days  as  a 
chrysalis  until  perfected. 

Then  it  wakes,  bursts  its  cerements,  gnaws 
a  hole  through  the  clay  walls  of  its  nursery 
prison,  and  emerges  into  the  world  as  a  brilliant 
wasp.  It  is  at  first  limp  and  hardly  able  to 
fly,  yet  it  knows  perfectly  well  how  to  sting 
you  if  you  arouse  its  easy  anger. 

Now  this  simple  story  is  really  a  marvelous 
one  when  you  ponder  its  details.  The  mother- 
wasp  was  born  the  previous  summer,  too  late 
to  see  the  method  of  building  the  adobe  houses. 
So  were  all  her  companions.  There  was  no  one 
to  teach  her  architecture,  nor  to  suggest  the 

^  31  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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proper  time  and  place,  or  even  the  need  for  do- 
ing such  work.  Yet  at  just  the  right  season 
the  insect  collected  the  materials — a  pretty 
thing  to  watch — and  accomplished  her  task  as 
neatly  and  effectively  as  had  her  dead-and-gone 
mother  and  grandmothers,  themselves  guided 
only  by  that  inborn  knowledge  we  term  instinct. 

Such  an  instinct  has  many  parallels  among 
animals,  which  know  intuitively  how  to  make 
homes  for  themselves  or  nests  for  the  care  of 
their  young ;  but  what  shall  be  said  of  the  next 
move?  How  can  the  wasp  foresee  (if  she  does) 
the  end  of  all  preparations — a  history  to  come 
in  which  she  will  take  no  part?  Why  must  she 
lay  up  spiders,  and  only  spiders,  while  other 
wasps  are  content  with  nothing  but  flies,  and 
still  others  with  caterpillars,  or  plant  lice,  or 
something  else? — for  the  methods  and  the  pro- 
visions are  almost  as  various  as  the  species. 

And  here  comes  in  another  most  extraor- 
dinary feature.  Many  wasps  do  not,  except 
by  accident,  kill  their  prey.  After  catching 
them  they  sting  them  with  such  consummate 
art  in  certain  nervous  centers  that  they  are  not 
o§  32  fo> 


Life  Insurance  for  Wasps 

r 

killed,  but  paralyzed,  and  so  are  packed  away 
alive  and  remain  fresh  during  the  many  days 
when  some  of  them  are  awaiting  the  use  of  the 
grub. 

One  of  the  most  conspicuous  examples  of  this 
is  the  European  mud-dauber,  and  that  insect 
always  attaches  its  egg  to  the  first  spider — the 
one  stowed  away  in  the  furthest  end  of  the  cell, 
so  that  when  the  grub  begins  to  eat  it  devours 
first  the  oldest  provisions,  while  those  kept  to 
the  last  are  the  freshest.  Our  own  mud-wasp 
does  not  seem  to  use  this  paralyzing  method. 

Three-fourths  of  its  spiders  are  killed  out- 
right and  dry  up  in  the  store-house;  nor  does 
our  wasp  lay  its  egg  until  the  last  spider  is  put 
in,  by  which  plan  it  escapes  a  large  risk  from 
destructive  parasites. 

We  do  possess  certain  wasps,  however,  which 
paralyze  their  prey  rather  than  kill  it  as  often 
as  they  can.  One  of  these  is  the  largest  of  our 
wasps — a  great  golden  fellow,  half  as  big  as 
a  humming-bird,  which  digs  a  tunnel  in  the 
ground,  which  I  have  sometimes  found  to  be 
three  feet  long,  and  deposits  in  a  chamber  at 
^  33  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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the  end  a  single  cicada,  as  big  as  my  lady's 
thumb,  with  an  egg  safely  tucked  under  its 
thigh. 

This  cicada  is  always  buried  alive,  and  re- 
mains comatose  until  the  wasp-grub  it  carries 
hatches  and  begins  to  devour  its  vitals;  and  it 
finally  succumbs  to  this  horrid  vivisection. 

Another  example  of  paralyzation  stinging  is 
found  among  the  potter-wasps,  a  common  kind 
of  which  in  this  country  makes  little  jugs  of 
almost  microscopic  grains  of  quartz  solidly 
cemented  by  its  own  saliva.  Like  the  graceful 
[Ammophila,  whose  burrows  are  to  be  seen  in 
almost  every  garden,  it  invests  in  an  insurance 
in  caterpillars,  only  in  this  case  they  must  be 
wee  ones,  for  the  jug  is  not  so  large  as  a 
thimble  and  often  is  balanced  upon  a  twig. 

The  French  entomologist,  Fabre,  disclosed 
the  very  curious  secrets  of  this  race.  With 
great  care  he  opened  a  window  in  the  side  of 
the  jug,  so  that  with  a  magnifying  glass  he 
could  see  what  was  going  on.  By  repeated  ob- 
servations he  thus  discovered  that  it  was  half 
full  of  caterpillars,  all  of  which  showed  more 


Life  Insurance  for  Wasps 

r 

or  less  life.  The  egg  had  not  been  laid  by  the 
mother-wasp  on  one  of  these  captives,  as  usual 
elsewhere,  but  had  been  suspended  by  a  gossa- 
mer thread  from  the  apex  of  the  chamber. 
When  the  grub  hatches,  it,  too,  hangs  by  a 
thread,  attached  to  a  sort  of  ribbon,  whence 
it  reaches  down  and  takes  a  bite  from  one  of 
the  caterpillars,  which  squirms  under  the  in- 
fliction. 

A  mere  stir  is  not  attended  to,  but  if  the 
half-benumbed  worm  is  aroused  enough  to  rear 
its  head  and  thrash  about  the  grub  pulls  itself 
up  by  the  thread  and  glides  into  the  "  ribbon," 
which  is  hollow  (for,  in  fact,  it  is  the  aban- 
doned egg-shell),  and  forms  a  refuge  from  the 
fury  of  the  paralyzed,  but  not  wholly  inert, 
caterpillars.  When  it  gets  larger,  the  larva 
drops  down  and  feeds  at  will,  regardless  of  the 
writhing  of  its  food. 

This  wonderful  system  of  insurance  for  the 
benefit  of  their  children,  of  which  a  great  vari- 
ety of  further  examples  may  easily  be  found 
and  studied  during  the  summer  all  over  the 
United  States,  is  the  outcome  of  the  growth 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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of  instincts  that  have  been  perfected  through 
unnumbered  ages  by  means  of  natural  selec- 
tion— instincts  that,  on  the  whole,  are  perhaps 
the  most  complicated  and  surprising  in  the 
world. 


36 


The  Squirrel's  Thrift,  and  How 
it  was  Learned 


ONE  of  the  poetic  and  pleasing  incidents 
of  autumn  in  the  woods  is  the  eager 
industry  of  the  squirrels  in  gathering 
and  carrying  to  their  habitations  quantities  of 
nuts,  acorns,  rose-hips,  grains  of  corn,  and 
other  dainties.  We  say  they  are  "  storing 
food  "  for  the  winter,  and  we  know  that  the 
mice  beneath  the  meadow  grass,  the  beaver  in 
his  forest-girt  pond,  the  weasel  within  the  stone 
wall,  and  now  and  then  a  woodpecker  or  jay, 
are  taking  similar  precautions  against  a  com- 
ing season  of  scarcity. 

The  poets  and  moralists  long  ago  took  this 
incident  to  heart,  more  or  less  incorrectly ;  but, 
so  far  as  I  can  recall,  the  philosopher  has  not 
considered  it,  nor  offered  any  explanation  of 
what  is  in  reality  a  remarkable  phenomenon. 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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We  speak  lightly  of  an  animal  foreseeing  the 
winter,  and  even  of  having  prophetic  knowledge 
of  what  its  character  is  to  be.  Proverbial 
weather-lore  is  founded  on  this  popular  faith, 
as  witness  such  sayings  as  that  the  muskrats 
build  their  houses  twenty  inches  higher  and 
far  thicker  before  early  and  long  winters 
than  in  view  of  short  and  mild  ones;  and  that 
chipmunks  store  a  larger  supply  of  nuts  than 
ordinary  in  anticipation  of  a  hard  winter.  Per- 
haps nothing  in  folk-lore  is  more  fixed  and  wide- 
spread than  this  class  of  beliefs,  despite  the 
discouragement  of  many  adverse  statistics. 
Yet  what  evidence  have  we  that  any  one  of  the 
small  mammals  or  birds  that  interest  us  at 
the  moment  have  any  conscious  anticipatory 
thought  of  winter  ahead,  or  a  conception  of 
winter  at  all?  The  associative  memory  of  older 
and  superior  animals  may  bring  back  from  time 
to  time  a  recollection  of  the  last  or  previous 
ones,  but  we  can  hardly  suppose  that  these  mice 
and  squirrels — many  too  young  to  have  seen 
snow  and  ice — have  any  realization  of  the  fact 
of  the  succession  of  seasons,  or  are  able  to  rea- 


The  Squirrel's  Thrift 

r 

son  out  with  conscious  intelligence  that  the 
scenes  of  a  twelvemonth  ago  will  surely  be  re- 
peated— that  again,  by  and  by,  the  green 
leaves  will  change  to  brown,  the  flowers  and 
fruits  will  wither  and  fall,  the  soft  odorous 
earth  and  rippling  water  will  turn  to  stone,  and 
the  world  become  a  place  of  starvation  for 
squirrels  unless  they  bestir  themselves. 

Any  one  who  stops  to  consider  the  little 
beasts,  and  measures  how  much  knowledge,  ex- 
perience, and  brain-work  are  implied  in  their 
alleged  "  foreseeing,"  must  conclude  that  it  is 
very  unlikely  the  squirrels  have  any  perception 
of  the  facts  at  all,  much  less  a  superhuman 
capability  of  knowing  what  is  to  be  the  next 
season's  particular  character  and  of  providing 
against  it.  If  this  is  so,  it  follows  that  the  ap- 
parently careful,  and  certainly  effective,  pro- 
vision of  shelter  and  food  which  so  many  of 
them  make  previous  to  the  descent  of  winter,  is 
an  automatic  performance — the  result  of  an 
instinctive  impulse  wholly  independent  of  fore- 
knowledge or  any  anxiety  about  impending 
scarcity.  The  fact  that  in  some  of  its  higher 
«0$  39  5» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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manifestations  a  good  deal  of  intelligence  seems 
to  be  exercised — the  curing  and  garnering  of 
its  hay  by  the  pika,  for  example — is  not  at  all 
incompatible  with  this  view  of  the  case. 

That  this  view  is  right  seems  plain,  and  an 
alteration  of  circumstances  would,  no  doubt, 
prove  it ;  for  should  a  sudden  change  of  climate 
by  obliterating  winter  remove  all  need  of  their 
exertion,  the  rodents  would  doubtless  continue 
for  hundreds  of  years  to  come  to  heap  up  stores 
in  the  season  of  abundance,  just  as  that  old- 
fogey  woodpecker  of  southern  California  still 
hammers  hundreds  of  acorns  into  holes  in  the 
bark  of  sugar  pines  preparatory  to  a  time  of 
scarcity  which  no  longer  arrives,  so  that  the 
bird  of  the  present  day  will  never  need  nor 
care  to  make  use  of  a  single  one  of  its  treasures. 
The  European  hamsters  toil  to  lay  up  astonish- 
ing masses  of  grain  underground,  not  a  tenth 
of  which,  it  is  said,  do  they  eat,  because  now 
they  sink  into  the  cold  trance  and  sleep  for 
months  beside  their  almost  untouched  stores. 
Here,  as  in  the  case  of  the  opossum,  elsewhere 
described,  an  instinct  has  overshot  its  mark, 


The  Squirrel's  Thrift 

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and  a  heritage  once  essential  has  become  an 
affliction  to  each  new  generation. 

In  northern  countries,  however,  the  majority 
of  mice,  squirrels,  gophers  and  the  like,  are 
still  face  to  face  annually  with  famine,  and 
must  starve  to  death  or  create  a  hoard  of  food 
against  that  contingency.  Nor  can  the  matter 
be  left  to  individual  precaution.  Chipmunks 
and  pocket-mice  are  irresponsible  folk,  and 
could  hardly  be  trusted  to  look  out  for  them- 
selves in  so  momentous  a  matter.  How,  then, 
has  Nature  impressed  upon  their  giddy  minds 
the  necessity  for  the  "  foresight "  we  admire, 
and  kept  them  faithful  in  execution  of  the  idea? 
It  appears  to  me  that  the  beneficial  habit  of 
doing  what  they  must  do,  if  they  are  to  survive 
in  our  cold  climate,  has  been  inculcated  in  some 
such  way  as  this : 

It  is  the  natural  custom  of  most  small  ani- 
mals, not  mere  grazers  or  flycatchers,  to  take 
as  much  of  their  food  as  they  well  can  to  some 
favorite  eating  place.  This  trait  is  noticeable 
in  a  wide  range  of  creatures — ants,  bees,  crabs, 
crocodiles,  crows,  fruit-bats,  monkeys,  certain 
^  41  ^ 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

carnivores  (notably  the  fox),  and  a  large  num- 
ber of  rodents.  One  finds  all  along  streams 
frequented  by  muskrats  heaps  of  mussel  shells, 
and  other  refuse,  indicating  where  day  after 
day  the  musquash  has  brought  his  catch  and 
dined.  Little  hillocks  and  stumps  are  favorite 
refectories,  perhaps  because  they  afford  an  easy 
outlook;  and  I  have  given  in  my  Life  of  Mam- 
mals* a  photographic  illustration  of  such  a 
dining-room  on  and  about  a  stump  beside  a 
stream. 

This  practice  may  be  followed  from  various 
motives,  such  as  the  wish  to  be  alone  so  as  not 
to  suffer  robbery  between  bites,  or  to  be  in  a 
suitable  place  to  lie  down  and  sleep  at  the  end 
of  the  meal.  In  the  case  of  flesh-eaters — the 
beasts  or  birds  of  prey — there  is  added  to  this, 
at  any  rate  in  the  season  when  their  offspring 
are  young,  the  impulse  to  carry  some  of  the 
plunder  to  the  family. 

Now,  one  of  the  strongest  feelings  animating 
animal  conduct  is  the  desire  to  do  things  by 

*  The  Life  of  Animals:  the  Mammals.    The  Macmillan 
Company,  New  York,  1906. 

<*§  42  $* 


The  Squirrel's  Thrift 

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rule,  to  go  accustomed  rounds  and  repeat  acts 
and  operations  in  precisely  the  same  way,  the 
intelligent  recognition  of  which  is  the  secret  of 
the  good  hunter's  success. 

....    Use  and  habit  are  powers 
Far  stronger  than  passion  in  this  world  of  ours, — 

even  among  the  wild  rangers  of  the  woods  and 
fields.  Hence  the  habit  of  seeking  the  same 
place,  for  an  often-recurring  necessity  or  func- 
tion is  quickly  confirmed.  Wild  horses  and  the 
African  rhinoceros,  for  example,  are  said  to  go 
daily  to  certain  spots  to  leave  their  dung  until 
a  large  heap  forms.  I  have  observed  that  dogs 
in  the  country  have  a  similar  regularity. 

If  this  tendency  is  well  marked  in  animals 
more  or  less  nomadic,  and  whose  residence  in  a 
locality  is  temporary,  how  much  stronger  and 
more  noticeable  will  it  be  in  the  case  of  an 
animal  with  a  permanent  abiding-place,  as  a 
resident  bird  like  the  fishhawk,  eagle,  or  rook, 
whose  nests  are  occupied  year  after  year  as 
well  as  more  or  less  continuously  between  breed- 
ing seasons.  In  the  British  rook,  for  example, 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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and  in  the  jackdaw  and  other  birds  of  the  crow 
tribes,  this  habit  leads  them  not  only  to  ac- 
cumulate a  quantity  of  edible  things  in  and 
about  the  nest  long  after  the  young  have  left 
it  and  are  taking  care  of  themselves,  but  to 
pick  up  and  deposit  there  any  bright  object 
which  attracts  their  restless  eyes  and  minds. 

But  still  more  conspicuous  examples  of  the 
power  of  habit  in  regulating  the  routine  of 
daily  life  are  to  be  found  among  those  smaller 
mammals,  mainly  rodents,  which  have  acquired 
the  habit  of  making  and  living  in  permanent 
burrows,  or  in  such  houses  as  that  of  the  beaver. 
These  animals,  almost  without  exception,  are 
feebly  endowed  with  powers  either  of  defense 
or  of  escape  outside  their  habitations,  and  when 
gathering  their  food  (seeds,  bark,  etc.)  they 
are  in  constant  terror  of  enemies.  They  must 
be  as  quick  about  the  task  as  possible,  and  can- 
not stop  to  eat  much  out  there,  but  must  merely 
gather  what  they  can  carry,  and  hasten  to  the 
safety  of  their  doorways,  at  least,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  dodge  back  into  harbor  at  the  first 
alarm.  This  is  the  reason  why  surviving  species 

+S  44  5» 


The  Squirrel's  Thrift 

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of  such  animals  have  mostly  acquired  capacious 
cheek-pouches  in  which  they  can  transport  a 
fair  supply  of  food  to  be  eaten  at  leisure. 

During  the  larger  part  of  the  year  the  pick- 
ings are  scanty,  and  these  mice,  gophers,  and 
the  like,  are  driven  by  hunger  to  seek  and  try  to 
save  every  bit  of  nutriment  they  can  find;  and 
some  seem  to  be  imbued  with  so  much  anxiety, 
or  such  superabundant  restlessness  and  energy, 
that  they  bring  to  their  homes  quantities  of 
things  not  edible,  as  well  as  far  more  food  than 
they  are  able  to  eat.  The  well-known  habit  of 
the  South  American  viscacha,  as  described  by 
Darwin,  Hudson,  and  others,  of  dragging  to 
its  burrow  bright  pebbles,  flowers,  lost  trinkets, 
and  all  kinds  of  orts  and  ends,  strikingly  ex- 
hibits this  sort  of  a  disposition;  and  the  crow 
tribe  the  world  over  is  noted  for  miserly  pro- 
pensities— witness  the  sacrilegious  jackdaw  of 
Rheims. 

Now,  in  some  cases  this  secretiveness  may 
redound,  quite  unintentionally  or  unexpectedly 
on  his  part,  to  the  benefit  of  the  busybody,  and 
in  that  case  would  be  likely  to  increase  in  effec- 

+§  45  &* 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

tiveness.  Thus,  as  has  been  intimated,  the  Eu- 
ropean rooks  heap  up  in  their  old  nests  piles 
of  acorns,  bones,  potatoes,  and  whatnot,  which 
they  find  on  the  ground  in  the  fall  and  do  not 
care  to  devour  at  the  moment.  Should  the  win- 
ter weather  set  in  with  unusual  severity,  and 
these  birds  find  themselves  unable  to  obtain  their 
natural  insect  food  from  the  frozen  ground, 
their  hunger  leads  them  to  peck  at  the  stuff 
they  have  left  lying  in  the  old  nest,  which  con- 
tinues to  be  a  sort  of  headquarters  for  each 
family  group.  If  the  hard  weather  long  con- 
tinues the  savings  will  be  mostly  or  wholly  con- 
sumed. Should  the  season  be  open,  however, 
the  purposeless  "  stores "  will  scarcely  be 
touched,  and  when  the  time  of  "  spring  clean- 
ing "  arrives,  in  preparation  for  a  new  brood, 
the  neglected  and  decayed  accumulation  will  be 
cast  out. 

In  the  case  of  the  store-saving  mice,  ham- 
sters, squirrels,  and  beavers,  necessity  and  ad- 
vantage have  led  to  a  more  advanced  develop- 
ment of  the  habit,  until  finally  it  has  become 
an  instinct  necessary  to  the  preservation  of  the 


The  Squirrel's  Thrift 

r 

species.  One  may  reasonably  infer  the  process 
of  acquirement  of  this  instinctive  habit  to  have 
been  something  like  this :  Remembering  that  the 
restless  search  for  and  eager  utilization  of  food 
constitute  the  foremost  characteristic  of  these 
little  animals,  we  may  believe  that  this  activity 
would  be  increasingly  stimulated  as  the  ripen- 
ing season  of  the  seeds,  nuts,  etc.,  on  which  they 
depend,  advanced;  and  the  acquisitive  impulse 
urging  them  to  incessant  industry,  so  neces- 
sary during  the  poorer  parts  of  the  year,  would 
then  be  over-excited  and  over-worked,  and  each 
animal  in  its  haste  to  be  up  and  doing  would 
constantly  bring  to  its  home  much  more  food 
than  would  be  daily  consumed,  so  that  a  lot  of 
it  would  accumulate  in  the  accustomed  dining- 
room,  which,  in  the  case  of  the  burrowers,  is 
mostly  a  chamber  underground,  especially  after 
the  weather  begins  to  grow  too  inclement  in  the 
autumn  to  make  it  comfortable  to  eat  out  of 
doors.  In  the  ensuing  winter  the  gradual  fail- 
ure of  outdoor  food-resources,  and  the  growing 
drowsy  indisposition  to  go  abroad,  which  more 
or  less  incapacitates  most  small  animals  at  this 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

time  of  the  year,  would  lead  to  the  utilization 
of  those  supplies  casually  saved  in  or  near  the 
burrow  or  house. 

The  animal  which  had  been  most  busy,  inde- 
fatigable, and  clever  in  gathering  food  would 
then  be  the  one  having  in  possession  the  largest 
amount  of  these  leavings  of  his  autumnal  feasts. 
Having  the  most  food,  he  would  be  among  those 
in  the  colony  or  neighborhood  most  likely  to 
survive,  and  to  perpetuate  in  his  descendants 
the  industrious  qualities  which  had  been  his 
salvation.  He  would  probably  also  be  one 
of  the  strongest  and  fattest  of  his  kind,  and 
hence  in  general  more  fit  to  stand  the  strains 
of  existence. 

The  action  of  natural  selection  would  after 
due  time  increase  in  the  line  of  descent  from 
such  an  ancestor  the  transmitted  greed  for 
gathering  food  in  the  fall,  until,  quite  unknown 
to  itself  in  each  passing  individual,  and,  there- 
fore, implying  no  creditable  virtue  of  char- 
acter, the  mere  busybody  of  old  times  would 
develop  into  our  model  of  thrift, 


48 


The  Seamy  Side  of  Bird-Life 

I 

I  DO  not  know  how  many  song-sparrows 
there  are  in  this  township — say  one  hun- 
dred pairs  for  a  guess.  Each  of  these 
will  lay  on  an  average  five  eggs  every  spring. 
If  all  the  eggs  of  every  pair  hatched  and  the 
young  survived,  we  should  have  next  year  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pairs,  supposing  all  the  par- 
ents to  have  died.  The  second  year  a  similar 
success  would  furnish  us  with  twelve  hundred 
and  fifty  pairs,  and  the  third  year  our  township 
would  contain  over  twelve  thousand  song-spar- 
rows. So  the  increase  would  go  on,  by  larger 
and  larger  leaps,  until  soon  the  hosts  would 
hardly  have  room  to  fly,  not  to  speak  of  finding 
food. 

Experience  shows  that  no  such  a  thing  hap- 
pens.   The  census  of  song-sparrows,  and  of  all 
other  birds,  remains  about  the  same,  showing 
that  the  births  only  equal  the  deaths. 
^49  So* 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

Assuming  that  the  average  life  of  one  of  the 
woodland  songsters  may  be  five  years,  one-fifth 
perish  annually,  and  only  one  in  five  of  the  eggs 
or  young  survives,  or  needs  to  do  so,  in  order 
to  replace  the  mortality.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
however,  the  proportion  of  eggs  and  nestlings 
saved  is  less  than  one  in  five,  for  most  small 
birds  attempt  to  rear  two  or  sometimes  three 
broods  a  year,  and,  moreover,  the  breeding  lives 
of  many  pairs  may  continue  through  several 
seasons.  It  would  not  be  too  much  to  say,  then, 
that  for  every  success  the  birds  of  our  fields 
and  woods  suffer  seven  or  eight  failures.  In 
some  classes  the  proportion  is  greater,  in  others 
less.  Many  seabirds  rear  chicks  from  nearly 
every  egg  they  produce,  so  safe  are  the  condi- 
tions surrounding  their  nesting  life. 

Now,  this  mortality  is  not  equally  distrib- 
uted. Birds  do  not  find  a  part  of  their  eggs 
infertile,  nor  do  a  part  of  each  set  of  nestlings 
die,  so  that  each  family  loses  some  and  saves 
some  of  its  offspring,  but  ordinarily  they  suc- 
ceed wholly  or  else  wholly  fail  in  respect  to  each 
brood;  and  every  such  failure  is  tragic,  how- 


The  Seamy  Side  of  Bird-Life 

r 

ever  much  utility  it  may  serve,  secondarily,  in 
providing  some  other  creature  with  needed  food. 
Bright  and  lissome,  gay  and  careless  as  our 
birds  seem  to  be,  their  lives  are  burdened  by 
dread,  and  that  which  should  be  the  most  joy- 
ous season  is  most  frequently  fraught  with 
sorrow. 

Yesterday,  for  example,  we  found  dead  in  the 
road  a  fledgling,  beaten  down,  chilled  and  de- 
stroyed by  the  cold  rains  that  for  two  or  three 
days  have  pelted  the  earth.  Undoubtedly  many 
such  an  accident  has  happened,  and  it  is  proba- 
ble that  in  hundreds  of  nests  the  young  have 
been  drowned,  or  chilled,  or  starved  to  death 
by  this  same  unseasonable  storm. 

I  remember  that  once  a  foolish  chickadee  nes- 
tled in  the  top  of  a  hollow  stump,  where  her 
chamber  was  a  perfect  pocket,  and  while  she 
was  sitting  a  tremendous  rain  fell.  I  am  sure 
her  brood  would  have  been  drowned  in  their 
bed  had  I  not  thought  of  them  and  fixed  a 
temporary  pent-house  to  shield  their  domicile. 

Long-continued  rains  do  immense  damage  to 
the  robins'  early  mud-built  nests  by  melting 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

them  down,  and  that  is  probably  the  main  rea- 
son why  this  bird  so  persistently  seeks  the  shel- 
ter of  our  porches.  The  cliff  swallows,  too, 
suffer  in  that  way  in  wild  regions,  where  they 
plaster  their  earthen  bulb-like  homes  in  dense 
colonies  on  the  face  of  a  cliff  or  clay  bank, 
whence  I  have  seen  them  slough  off  by  the  score 
when  dampened ;  but  they,  too,  "  know  enough 
to  come  in  when  it  rains  "  and  wherever  civiliza- 
tion has  gone  they  have  abandoned  their  preca- 
rious native  method  for  nesting  sites  beneath 
the  eaves  of  barns  and  have  even  modified  their 
architecture  in  adaptation  to  the  new  and  safer 
positions. 

Gales  sometimes  upset  nests  and  hurl  them 
out  of  the  trees,  though  this  is  not  so  frequent 
an  accident  as  one  might  expect.  Sometimes, 
however,  birds  place  their  nests  most  insecurely. 
A  robin  last  summer  built  a  nest  near  me  in  a 
clump  of  maples,  and  was  so  foolish  as  to  rest 
it  upon  two  near-by  branches,  one  of  which  be- 
longed to  one  tree  and  one  to  another.  Of 
course  the  first  high  wind,  moving  the  trees  at 
variance,  wrenched  the  nest  apart.  I  saw  a 


C.  Barlow,  Phot. 

Chicadee's  Nest  in  the  Top  of  a  Hollow  Stump 


The  Seamy  Side  of  Bird-Life 

r 

blue  jay's  nest  lately  subject  to  a  similar  acci- 
dent. A  dove's  nest  that  I  had  been  watching, 
because  of  its  unusual  position  on  the  edge  of 
a  ledge  of  rocks,  came  to  an  end  by  the  eggs 
being  rolled  over  the  cliff  in  a  gust  of  a  thunder- 
storm. 

The  only  nest  of  those  among  tree  branches 
really  safe  in  respect  to  gales  is  the  pendent 
purse  of  the  Baltimore  oriole,  which  sways  with 
the  elastic  twigs  at  the  extremity  of  which  it 
hangs,  and  suffers  no  harm  as  long  as  they  hold 
their  form.  This  nest  is  secure  against  many 
other  dangers  to  which  most  are  exposed,  and 
probably  the  comparative  abundance  of  this 
beautiful  denizen  of  our  parks  and  orchards 
and  rural  highways  is  largely  due  to  this  fact. 

Misfortunes  that  befall  bird  families  through 
physical  agencies,  such  as  rains,  floods,  gales, 
forest  fires  and  the  like,  play  but  a  small  part, 
however,  in  the  "  infant  mortality "  of  the 
woods,  beside  the  loss  from  marauders  of  vari- 
ous sorts,  from  the  bird's-nesting  boy  or  cattle's 
crushing  foot  to  the  minute  insect  vermin  that 
sometimes  compel  small  species  to  abandon  their 
<+$  53  $*> 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

hair-  or  wool-lined  nests  before  the  proper 
time. 

Eggs  and  young  birds  form  a  large  item 
upon  the  bill  of  fare  of  many  animals  in  the 
early  half  of  the  year.  Hardly  any  carnivore 
will  refuse  to  rob  a  bird's  nest,  and  many  dili- 
gently search  for  them.  I  was  passing  through 
a  thicket  the  other  day  with  my  terrier  at  my 
heels  when  a  field  sparrow  jumped  away  from 
my  feet  in  a  manner  indicating  that  she  had 
just  left  her  nest.  While  I  was  searching  about 
for  it  I  glanced  at  my  dog  and  saw  the  little 
rascal — who  is  by  no  means  thievish — with  his 
nose  in  the  poor  sparrow's  snug  home  in  a  low 
bush,  licking  up  the  remains  of  the  last  egg. 

This  momentary  return  to  primitive  ways 
on  Waggles's  part  reminded  me  that  in  the  Arc- 
tic regions  the  foxes  grow  fat  in  spring  after 
their  winter  famine  by  feasting  upon  the  eggs 
and  young  of  the  marsh-breeding  water-fowl, 
and  nearer  home  the  foxes  doubtless  help  to 
decimate  our  nesting  game-birds. 

The  mink,  badger,  skunk,  muskrat  and  wood- 
rat  are  all  robbers  of  ground-built  nests,  and 
^  54  ^ 


The  Seamy  Side  of  Bird-Life 

r 

even  the  mice  destroy  many  small  ones,  while 
the  wildcat,  weasel,  raccoon  and  red  squirrel, 
climb  trees  in  a  systematic  search  for  eggs  and 
squabs,  subsisting  largely  at  this  season  (when, 
indeed,  other  food  for  them  is  scarce)  upon 
these  delicacies.  The  chipmunk  does  some  simi- 
lar damage,  but  the  gray  and  fox  squirrels  are 
innocent  of  it,  else  it  would  prove  most  mis- 
chievous to  cultivate  them  in  city  parks  and 
village  streets. 

Yet  none  of  these  animals,  nor  in  thickly 
settled  districts  all  of  them  together,  equal  do- 
mestic cats  in  this  rapine.  Night  and  day,  in 
the  neighborhood  of  towns  not  only,  but  upon 
farms,  they  range  the  woods  and  fields  search- 
ing high  and  low  for  birds'  nests.  No  single 
agency — with  the  possible  exception  of  the 
English  sparrow — has  done  so  much  to  drive 
away  and  diminish  our  village  birds  as  these 
useless  and  dreadful  "  pets." 

I  was  told  by  an  intelligent  man,  who  took 
pains  to  "  keep  tabs  "  on  Tabby,  that  one  single 
house-cat  in  western  New  York  last  summer 
destroyed  sixty-eight  nests  within  a  radius  of 

<$  55  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

a  mile  from  the  farm-house.  Every  lover  of 
birds  and  all  Audubon  societies  should  organize 
the  fiercest  kind  of  a  crusade  against  vagrant 
cats  as  the  prime  movement  in  every  plan  for 
bird  preservation. 

Several  birds  are  nest  robbers,  the  most  ar- 
rant offenders  in  the  United  States  being  mag- 
pies, crows  (especially  the  Southern  fish-crow), 
jays  and,  along  the  seashore,  certain  gulls. 
These  destroy  thousands  of  sets  of  eggs  in  each 
district  every  spring.  In  a  special  sort  of  way, 
and  locally,  the  English  sparrows  belong  in  this 
criminal  list,  for  they  often  tear  nests  to  pieces 
in  order  to  rebuild  them  for  themselves  or  to  use 
the  materials.  The  worst  sufferers  from  these 
bandits  are  the  barn  swallows,  which  have  been 
greatly  lessened  in  many  localities  in  the  East 
by  this  means. 

The  birds  of  prey  are  active  at  this  season, 
too,  especially  the  owls,  which  pounce  at  night 
upon  the  sitting  mothers  and,  dragging  them 
from  their  nests,  leave  the  little  ones  to  starve 
or,  perhaps,  to  form  a  second  course  of  the 
meal. 


i.2 


i 

t 


pq  *.s 

«5   O   g 

^  'Sg- 

•3  |ll 
rt     .s« 


ao  3 

fli 


The  Seamy  Side  of  Bird-Life 

r 

Even  worse  are  the  snakes.  An  African  ser- 
pent feeds  so  exclusively  upon  eggs  that  it  has 
a  mouth  especially  fitted  for  breaking  and  con- 
suming them.  Birds  breeding  on  the  ground 
are  especially  liable  to  this  foe,  and  it  is  the 
natural  hostility  all  birds  feel  toward  this  enemy 
that  leads  them  to  attack  it,  often  with  such 
recklessness  that  people  say  the  snake  "  fas- 
cinates "  them  within  reach  of  its  stroke. 

In  our  country  the  most  persistent  and  suc- 
cessful nest-hunter  is  the  blacksnake,  which  is 
an  expert  climber.  Every  ornithologist  can  tell 
of  dozens  of  nests  he  has  known  to  be  despoiled 
by  this  sable  marauder;  yet  it  often  fails.  I 
saw  one  knocked  from  a  high  limb  within  a  yard 
of  our  house  porch  by  a  couple  of  robins  who 
came  home  just  in  time  to  protect  their  prop- 
erty. Blacksnakes  will  ascend  to  astonishing 
heights,  explore  the  tree-tops  with  great  skill 
in  festooning  their  weight  across  the  slender 
branches,  and  search  woodpeckers'  holes  and 
every  cranny  for  a  variety  of  prey.  It  is  this 
serpent,  instead  of  the  rattlesnake,  which  never 
climbs  trees,  that  Audubon  should  have  repre- 
+§  57  $+ 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

sented  in  his  spirited  but  erroneous  picture  of 
the  brown  thrashers  defending  their  home  in  a 
bush. 

When  all  these  dangers  are  thus  passed  in 
review,  one  begins  to  understand  how  perilous 
an  experience  is  a  bird's  attempt  at  domestic 
life,  and  how  needful  are  all  possible  circum- 
stances and  qualities  guarding  and  favoring  it. 


58 


Three  Tragical  Bird-Romances 

r 

I  HAVE  certain  rural  friends  in  the  Hud- 
son Valley,  in  whose  society  I  delight  so 
much  that  I  am  accustomed  to  jot  down 
from  time  to  time  memoranda  of  their  doings. 
Thus  after  a  while  I  find  myself  in  possession 
of  little  stories  whose  very  simplicity  of  truth 
constitutes  a  charm  often  lacking  in  elaborate 
fiction.     Such  is  the  record  of  the  midsummer 
affairs   of  three  familiar  birds  who   gave  me 
their  confidence  or  gained  my  sympathy. 

June  22. — Four  days  ago  the  pair  of  phoebe 
flycatchers  which  had  been  investigating  the 
porch  for  some  days,  always  together,  sud- 
denly began  in  great  haste  to  settle  themselves 
on  one  of  the  timber-ends  that  support  the  over- 
hanging roof  of  the  south  gable.  But  which 
one?  There  were  a  dozen  there  just  alike. 
Poor  little  Phoebe  couldn't  select  among  them, 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

and  made  a  beginning  on  one  only  to  turn  dis- 
contentedly to  the  next  one,  until  every  timber 
on  one  side  of  the  gable  was  spotted  with  muddy 
semicircles.  I  showed  this  situation  to  a  liter- 
ary neighbor,  and  he  immediately  wrote  a  very 
pretty  and  moral  essay  upon  it,  but  he  totally 
neglected  to  explain  by  what  criterion,  philo- 
sophical or  sentimental,  one  timber  was  at  last 
chosen,  so  that  now  a  nest  is  really  being  com- 
pleted. The  literary  essays  that  deal  with  na- 
ture are  often  most  disappointingly  deficient, 
as  I  have  observed,  in  respect  to  the  very  things 
I  most  want  to  know.  If  I  could  find  out  just 
what  the  phoebes  need  or  prefer,  I  should  be 
delighted  to  furnish  them  with  precisely  suit- 
able quarters,  for  the  sake  of  their  society. 

One  day  I  noticed  that  the  male  no  longer 
appeared,  but  the  female  went  on  doing  all  the 
work,  as  probably  she  would  choose  to  do  in 
any  case,  tearing  up  thread-like  moss  by  the 
roots,  and  bringing  it,  with  as  much  attached 
mud  as  possible,  to  be  plastered  into  a  cup-like 
structure,  where  the  moss  continues  alive  and 
keeps  green  and  growing.  She  worked  all  day, 


Three  Tragical  Bird-Romances 

r 

mostly  upon  and  within  it,  patting  with  her 
feet,  pulling  and  pushing  with  her  beak,  and 
molding  the  form  to  the  eager  breast,  with  every 
appearance  of  fond  enjoyment,  but  progress 
was  slow.  At  last  the  task  was  finished,  and  I 
was  looking  forward  to  the  opportunity  for 
convenient  and  minute  study  of  her  method  of 
rearing  her  young,  when  she  suddenly  ceased 
to  flutter  about  the  gable  or  perch  confid- 
ingly on  the  clothes-lines ;  and  I  never  saw  her 
again. 

June  81. — Robins  have  been  making  a  home 
for  some  days  past,  not  far  from  the  busy 
phoebes,  in  the  top  of  a  maple  close  by  the 
corner  of  the  kitchen  porch.  A  branch  of  an 
adjacent  poplar  runs  through  the  maple-crotch 
in  which  the  nest  rested,  and  hence  through  the 
nest  itself,  which  is  thus  bound  to  the  limbs  of 
two  separate  trees.  This  will  make  trouble  the 
first  time  the  wind  blows. 

June  22. — I  have  been  keeping  an  eye  for 
some  time  on  a  nest  full  of  young  worm-eating 
«o$  61  5» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

warblers,  snugly  tucked  into  a  tiny  cave  of  the 
hillside  close  to  the  path.  This  morning  I 
found  that  the  fledglings  were  out,  one  flutter- 
ing in  a  thick  little  bush  as  if  unable  to  make 
its  way  through  the  tangle  of  twigs.  Their 
mother  was  distracted  with  care,  and  leaped 
upon  the  leg  of  my  trousers,  where  she  clung 
sideways  and  looked  up  at  me  with  black  eyes 
"  popping  "  with  fear.  Then  she  caught  sight 
of  my  terrier,  and  her  wits  returned  promptly. 
He  was  comprehensible.  Springing  at  him  like 
a  fury,  she  whirled  around  his  head  and  then 
dropping  before  his  nose  feigned  helplessness, 
and  let  the  surprised,  but  innocent,  dog  chase 
her  until  they  were  far  away  from  the  young.  I 
never  saw  a  bird  do  the  broken-wing  dodge 
better.  Waggles  was  astounded  to  see  her  quick 
recovery  at  the  proper  time,  and  trotted  sheep- 
ishly back  to  me,  confessing  that  he  had  learned 
a  new  wrinkle  in  woodcraft.  The  incident  took 
some  of  the  conceit  out  of  me,  as  well  as  my 
dog ;  for,  without  thinking  about  it,  I  had  been 
regarding  this  well-known  action  of  birds  as 
directed  wholly  toward  human  alarms,  whereas, 
+§  62  So 


Three  .Tragical  Bird-Romances 

r 

of  course,  it  is  a  trick  to  cheat  foxes,  snakes 
and  similar  enemies  first  of  all. 

I  was  obliged  to  go  away  for  a  few  days  at 
this  time,  and  during  my  absence  a  tremendous 
thunderstorm  deluged  the  locality,  and  filled 
me  with  anxiety,  when  I  heard  of  it,  for  the 
safety  of  my  little  friends.  As  I  expected,  the 
robins'  nest  by  the  kitchen  had  been  sawed  in 
two  by  the  swaying  of  the  alien  limb.  The  pair 
had  then  chosen  a  more  secure  crotch  in  another 
tree,  where  a  very  poor  specimen  of  a  nest, 
composed  mainly  of  staghorn  "  moss "  and 
totally  lacking  in  the  customary  mortar  of 
mud,  was  already  completed  and  occupied.  The 
female  of  this  pair  was  an  undersized  and  ap- 
parently immature  bird,  but  her  mate  was  one 
of  the  reddest,  grandest-looking  robins  ever 
seen.  Here  was  a  fine  example  of  the  Wallace- 
Darwin  theory  of  sexual  selection ;  but  it  seemed 
as  though  it  ought  to  have  been  his  fortune  to 
be  beguiled  by  a  better  mate.  Such  a  pairing 
would  seem  to  vitiate  the  required  result. 

It    was    probably    the   inexperience    of   this 

*$  63  fo> 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

young  housewife  that  had  led  to  the  unfor- 
tunate choice  of  the  bad  site  first  taken,  and  to 
the  poor  architecture  in  both  attempts  at  home- 
making.  But  no  one  has  heard  any  complaints 
from  the  magnificent  husband,  who  no  doubt 
sees  charms  in  his  young  spouse  outweighing 
considerations  of  comfort.  As  both  the  home 
and  the  partnership  are  temporary,  it  doesn't 
much  matter.  Maybe  next  year  he  will  have 
better  luck.  Possibly  he  doesn't  know  or  de- 
serve anything  better, — fine  feathers  do  not  al- 
ways make  fine  birds,  'tis  said. 

June  26. — Found  a  wood-thrush's  nest  to- 
day, close  to  the  house,  which  had  been  con- 
structed and  occupied  with  such  secrecy  that 
we  had  never  suspected  its  presence,  though  it 
has  been  inhabited  so  long  that  the  female  is 
now  sitting.  It  is  a  beautifully  typical  leaf- 
made  nest,  resting  on  the  flat  bough  of  a  hem- 
lock, ten  feet  from  the  ground. 

June  28. — Already  the  wood-thrush  is  so 
tame  that  I  can  go  close  to  her  without  dis- 
turbing her,  and,  doubtless,  were  she  within 
*$  64  5» 


Three  Tragical  Bird-Romances 

r 

easy  reach,  I  could  teach  her  to  let  me  stroke 
her  back,  as  I  have  taught  other  birds. 

Last  night  I  made  a  tour  of  various  nests  at 
midnight  and  found  all  the  mothers  sitting,  of 
course;  but  unexpectedly  I  aroused  no  males 
by  disturbing  these  females.  Could  a  small 
marauder  have  ravaged  without  resistance?  or 
did  silently  watchful  cock-birds  perceive  my 
friendliness?  I  regret  to  say  I  think  the  for- 
mer was  the  case.  They  were  sound  asleep  some- 
where else. 

July  1. — The  male  of  my  interesting  pair  of 
robins  spends  most  of  his  time  in  the  dead  top 
of  a  large  tree,  about  one  hundred  feet  in  an 
air-line  from  his  home.  In  this  old  birch, 
which  is  a  house  of  call  for  the  winged  people 
of  the  whole  neighborhood,  Cock  Robin  has 
a  particular  perch  whence  he  can  see  his  nest; 
and  near  him,  on  the  outermost  tip  of  an  ex- 
tended dry  twig,  sits  most  of  the  time  a  hum- 
mingbird, no  doubt  in  view  of  his  family 
treasures  somewhere  on  the  wooded  Rimrocks 
hillside. 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

To-day  there  suddenly  dashed  into  the 
tree,  with  a  loud,  rasping  shout,  a  bully  of  a 
bluejay.  The  hummer  glanced  into  the  air  and 
vanished  like  the  bursting  of  an  iridescent  bub- 
ble; but  the  robin  whirled  and  drove  at  the 
stranger  without  an  instant's  waiting.  Like  a 
flash  his  little  mate  came  from  the  nest  to  her 
husband's  aid,  and  a  third  robin  rushed  in  from 
elsewhere,  so  that  in  two  seconds  the  braggart 
jay  was  routed  and  fleeing  to  the  woods.  What 
a  row  it  raised!  The  robins  chased  him  hotly, 
the  wood- thrush  sprang  from  her  cradle  in  the 
hemlock  to  give  her  help,  and  I  could  hear  little 
birds  joining  in  the  hue  and  cry  as  the  rout  ran 
up  the  hillside,  till  the  jay  had  been  driven  to 
a  safe  distance. 

Now  and  then  the  robin  visits  his  wife  at  the 
nest,  and,  I  think,  takes  her  a  cherry ;  but  I  get 
no  sight  of  any  conjugal  attentions  on  the  part 
of  the  wood- thrush,  in  whose  nest  are  only  three 
eggs.  Probably  it  is  a  second  brood. 

July  3. — Both  robins  have  disappeared,  yet 
no  one  has  seen  any  harm  befall  them  nor  heard 

-•$  66  &*> 


Three  Tragical  Bird-Romances 

r 

the  outcry  that  would  surely  follow  an  attack. 
There  are  no  bird's-nesting  boys  in  this  local- 
ity, and  few,  if  any,  house-cats.  I  climbed  to 
the  deserted  nest  this  evening,  and  could  see  no 
signs  of  a  struggle,  nor  were  there  any  eggs 
or  remnants  of  any ;  yet  the  bird  had  been  sit- 
ting several  days.  Did  she  find  herself  unable 
to  produce  eggs,  and  therefore  abandoned  the 
nest?  It  is  a  mysterious  outcome  of  a  queer 
little  bird-romance. 

July  5. — Father  Wood-thrush  never  stays 
close  to  his  nest,  and  is  rarely  seen;  but  while 
his  mate  is  brooding,  her  golden  mouth  often 
gasping  for  air  during  these  hot,  stagnant 
days,  he  sits  in  a  tree  not  far  away  and  sings 
almost  continuously,  and  evidently  to  her  alone. 
It  is  not  a  loud,  rollicking  song,  such  as  he  still 
sometimes  gives  in  the  cool  of  the  morning,  but 
a  low,  fond  and  exceedingly  melodious  chant — 
a  perfect  lullaby,  altogether  outside  of  the  pub- 
lic repertoire  of  this  virtuoso  of  the  woods.  It 
is  in  four  parts,  the  intervals  five  pulse-beats 
in  length. 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

July  14. — The  wood-thrusK,  presumably,  is 
rejoicing  in  success;  at  any  rate  three  young 
ones  are  squirming  about  in  the  bottom  of  the 
nest  this  morning.  A  friend  wishes  to  photo- 
graph them,  so  this  afternoon  we  parted  the 
twigs  in  front  of  the  nest  and  clipped  off  some 
of  them  to  expose  it  to  view  more  clearly,  the 
familiar  bird  paying  very  little  attention  to  our 
tinkering. 

July  15. — Last  night  fell  dark,  and  at  mid- 
night a  storm  of  wind  and  rain  beat  upon  us 
for  three  or  four  hours.  The  photographer 
came  over  about  nine  o'clock,  but  when  we  went 
to  the  thrush's  nest  it  was  empty.  No  commo- 
tion had  been  heard,  such  as  an  owl  or  black- 
snake  would  arouse;  and  there  were  no  marks 
of  violence  about  the  nest  indicating  that  it 
had  been  harmed  by  the  tempest  or  by  a  ma- 
rauder. Yet  the  home  was  desolate.  I  knew 
of  a  precisely  similar  and  unexplained  disaster 
overtaking  the  brood  of  a  vireo  last  year. 

These  ever-recurring  tragedies  lend  a  tinge 
of  awe  and  sadness  to  all  nature-study.  After 

*>$  68  £» 


Three  Tragical  Bird-Romances 

r 

careful  consideration  I  have  concluded  that  only 
one  nestful  of  birds  out  of  seven,  on  the  aver- 
age, is  saved  to  reach  maturity.  Greater  than 
protection  for  adult  birds  is  the  necessity  of 
guarding  the  cradles  of  their  young. 


^69 


A  Tiny  Man-o'-War 

r 

A  MONG  the  tiny  ocean  tramps  that  drift 
f\  along  the  Gulf  Stream  into  our  north- 
•* — ^"  ern  harbors  during  September  days, 
when  the  water  gets  warm  and  the  weather  is 
calm,  none  is  more  strange  and  lovely  than  the 
Portuguese  man-o'-war.  It  is  an  iridescent 
bubble,  courtesying  to  the  ripples  as  the  tide 
bears  it  along,  while  flashes  of  prismatic  color 
sweep  over  its  surface  with  every  movement  of 
the  azure  mirror  upon  which  it  dances  so  gayly. 

Under  the  smiling  skies  that  arch  Antillean 
seas  you  may  behold  fleets  of  them  like  convoys 
of  tiny  toy  boats  painted  in  rainbow  hues,  and 
after  great  storms  they  are  sometimes  thrown 
by  tens  of  thousands  on  the  coral  beaches  in 
piles  and  windrows  that  seem  globules  of  deli- 
cately tinted  glass  or  huge,  irregular  pearls, 
gleaming  in  purple  and  green,  carmine  and 
gold. 

*$  70  5» 


A  Tiny  Man-o'-War 

r 

Now,  this  exquisite  gem  of  the  ocean — appar- 
ently a  creature  of  foam  and  sunlight,  a  flower 
blushing  in  the  desert  of  the  mighty  deep- — is 
not  only  a  living  and  possibly  sentient  animal, 
but  a  most  curious  and  complicated  community 
or  family:  a  ship  and  crew  in  one,  needing  no 
commander,  working  always  in  harmony,  voy- 
aging ever,  and,  like  a  privateer,  protecting 
its  radiant  structure  and  gathering  supplies 
as  it  goes.  Nobody  knows  who  gave  it  the 
name  "  man-o'-war,"  nor  whether  he  understood 
the  truth,  but  it  was  a  happy  thought.  In 
classification  it  ranks  as  a  free-swimming  com- 
pound hydrozoan  of  the  order  Siphonophora, 
— a  group  intermediate  between  jelly-fishes  and 
polyps.  The  genus  is  Physalia,  and  our 
wanderer  Physalia  pelagica.  It  consists  of  a 
unison  of  four  parts,  or  kinds  of  parts,  which 
some  naturalists  regard  as  separate  classes  of 
united  individuals  (or  "persons"),  and  others 
as  the  organs  or  appendages  of  a  single  ani- 
mal. The  reasons  why  the  latter  seems  the 
better  view  are  too  technical  for  statement 
here,  but  a  plain  account  may  be  given  which 

^  71  ^ 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

will  enable  anyone  to  understand  the  creature 
who  will  lift  a  physalia  from  the  waves  in  a 
bucket  and  then  gently  pour  it  into  a  glass  jar 
or  aquarium  of  sea  water,  and  so  preserve  the 
delicate  animal  alive,  to  be  examined  at  leisure. 
It  will  not  bear  touching. 

It  will  then  be  observed  that  the  gaudy  float 
— sometimes  eight  inches  long  and  three  high — 
is  a  pear-shaped  bladder-like  thing,  tensely  in- 
flated. It  is  pinched  along  its  top  into  a  brill- 
iant crest,  and  from  its  lower  side,  mainly  to- 
ward the  larger  (front)  end,  depend  a  great 
number  of  filmy  appendages. 

This  float  is  in  reality  a  sac  filled  with  air, 
which  enters  it  through  an  opening  in  the 
pointed  end.  The  sac,  although  seeming  as 
thin,  and  in  parts  as  diaphanous,  as  a  bubble, 
has  a  double  wall — that  is,  it  is  one  sac  inside 
of  another ;  and  it  abounds  in  muscular  fibers, 
by  which  the  animal  can  vary  its  shape,  con- 
tracting the  sac  at  will  into  creases  and  open- 
ing or  closing  the  air  door;  and  the  beautiful 
creature,  when  young,  is  able  by  this  means, 
when  rain  falls  or  the  winds  blow  cold,  to  expel 


Portugese  Man-'o-War 


A  Tiny  Man-o'-War 

r 

the  air  from  its  float  and  sink  below  the  surface 
to  warm  and  quiet  levels  until  better  weather 
recalls  it  to  bask  in  the  sunlight  and  sail  upon 
serener  seas.  Thus  this  man-o'-war  may  be 
called  the  submarine  boat  of  nature's  miniature 
navy — a  primitive  model  for  our  Hollands  and 
Maxims.  But  with  age  comes  stiffness;  and 
the  older  ones  must  drift  at  the  surface  and 
take  the  storm  as  well  as  the  sunshine,  while 
the  youngsters  "  go  below  "  to  disport  them- 
selves at  ease. 

It  is  a  lover  of  warmth,  and  those  seen  along 
northern  coasts  are  venturesome  vagrants  who 
have  wandered  up  the  Gulf  Stream  and  then 
been  blown  astray.  They  are  occasionally  seen 
in  New  York  Bay,  but  are  more  common  from 
Long  Island  to  Newport. 

Innumerable  pigment  cells  give  a  permanent 
color  to  much  of  the  sac,  rich  blues  changing  in 
places  to  rosy  tints;  but,  besides  this,  the  sur- 
face is  striated  or  scratched  with  exceedingly 
fine  straight  lines,  crossing  each  other  at  right 
angles,  forming  prisms — thousands  to  the  inch 
— which  break  up  the  light  and  cause  it  to  play 
«o$  73  &* 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

over  the  surface  with  that  same  shifting  irides- 
cence which  illumines  so  beautifully  the  nacre- 
ous lining  of  shells  (mother-of-pearl)  and  the 
surface  of  ancient  glass. 

Seen  under  a  microscope,  this  striated  coat 
glistens  with  a  magnificent  display  of  silvery 
light.  Furthermore,  the  pointed  end  (which  is 
the  overhanging  stern  of  this  fairy  boat)  may 
be  lifted,  or  depressed,  or  turned  a  little  to  one 
side,  so  that  it  acts  partly  like  a  rudder  and 
partly  like  an  after-sail,  apparently  enabling 
the  mariner  to  steer  a  course,  even  somewhat  up 
into  the  wind.  I  say  "  apparently,"  because  in 
truth  the  "  steering,"  no  doubt,  is  a  mechanical 
result  of  the  pressure  of  the  breeze  together 
with  the  dragging  back  of  the  flat  trailing  ten- 
tacles, sometimes  fifty  feet  long  when  fully 
stretched  out,  which  tips  up  the  stern  and,  in 
a  strong  wind,  "  brings  the  ship  to,"  head  on 
to  the  gale.  Mariners,  when  hard  pressed  by  a 
gale,  sometimes  rig  and  trail  astern  a  "  drag  " 
for  precisely  the  same  purpose. 

This  float  that  we  have  been  considering  is  a 
single  organ  whose  sole  service  it  is  to  carry  the 
-•£74  $+ 


A  Tiny  Man-o'-War 

r 

rest  about,  and  it  is  the  first  part  of  the  animal 
to  develop  at  birth.  This  birth  may  be  from 
an  egg — an  almost  invisible  globule  voided  into 
the  sea  to  take  its  chances  of  escape  from  a 
thousand  perils  long  enough  to  develop  into  a 
tiny  sac  and  gradually  to  perfect  its  system 
of  appendages.  More  often,  probably,  the 
young  physalia  begins  as  a  bud  attached  to  one 
of  the  reproductive  appendages  of  its  mother 
and  does  not  break  off  to  start  on  an  inde- 
pendent existence  until  it  is  pretty  well  ad- 
vanced in  growth.  This  is  so  jelly-fish-like  that 
some  naturalists  say  the  float  is  a  true  medusa. 
I  have  italicized  the  word  "  probably  "  in  the 
sentence  above,  not  to  throw  doubt  on  the  state- 
ment, but  to  emphasize  the  fact  that  no  female 
physalia  has  been  observed :  all  the  specimens  we 
see,  apparently,  are  males. 

As  it  becomes  larger  there  gradually  grow 
from  the  lower  surface  of  its  outer  wall  four 
pairs  or  groups  of  appendages  or  associated 
organs  which  have  been  named  zooids,  or  poly- 
pites.  These  vary  in  form  and  in  function, 
for  in  this  society  there  is  complete  division 


frhe  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

of  labor — fixed  individualization,  which  is  never 
transgressed  because  each  member  is  capable 
of  but  a  single  kind  of  work. 

Three  kinds  of  zooids  may  be  discerned.  The 
first  to  attract  the  eye  are  the  long  and  writh- 
ing tentacles  which  trail  like  living  thick-edged 
ribbons  beneath  the  float.  Some  are  contracted 
into  tight  brown  ringlets,  others  crinkled, 
others  hanging  loose  and  long.  Their  elas- 
ticity is  enormous,  so  that  when  the  wind  is 
strong  they  may  trail  thirty  or  fifty  feet  behind 
a  physalia  of  large  size,  forming  what  sailors 
know  as  a  "  wind  anchor "  against  drifting 
ashore  and  causing  the  little  ship  to  "  heave  to," 
as  has  been  explained.  The  business  of  these 
scores  of  long,  sensitive,  contractile  tentacles 
is  to  find  and  seize  the  prey  upon  which  this 
man-o'-war  subsists.  This  food  consists  of 
small,  juicy  larvae  of  shellfish  of  every  kind, 
fragile  oceanic  relatives  of  the  shrimp,  tiny 
fishes,  and  anything  else  small  and  soft. 

The  instant  such  an  unfortunate  swims 
against  the  invisible  nets  of  this  Medusa  of  the 
sea,  the  tentacles  cling  and  wind  about  it,  and 


A  Tiny  Man-o'-War 

r 

from  them  burst  hundreds  of  exquisitely  sharp, 
thread-like  and  barbed  darts  (until  then  hidden 
in  pockets  opened  by  a  touch),  which  penetrate 
the  victim's  flesh  and  carry  into  it  a  fiery  poison 
(perhaps  formic  acid)  that  benumbs  the  nerves 
and  paralyzes  effort. 

Then  the  tentacles  begin  to  contract,  and 
slowly  draw  the  captive  up  into  the  living 
thicket  beneath  the  float,  where  it  comes  into 
contact  with  shorter  and  broader  tentacles  bear- 
ing flask-shaped  bodies,  whese  pores  are  filled 
with  the  equivalent  of  gastric  juice.  I  have 
seen  a  physalia  kill  and  lift  to  its  "  mouths  "  a 
fish  longer  than  its  own  float. 

These  feeding  organs  gradually  absorb  and 
digest  the  nutritive  part  of  the  prey  and  send  it 
circulating,  in  the  place  of  blood,  throughout 
the  space  between  the  walls  of  the  float  and  up 
and  down  the  interior  of  every  pendent  organ, 
and  so  the  whole  is  nourished  impartially. 
There  are  large  and  small  feeders,  each  with 
highly  colored  tentacles  of  its  own,  and  some  of 
them,  according  to  Prof.  Alexander  Agassiz, 
seem  also  to  perform  a  respiratory  function. 
*>§  77  j» 


The  .Wit  of  the  WM 

r 

The  stinging  cells  which  serve  to  render  help- 
less its  prey  are  also  the  defense  of  the  physalia. 
They  are  the  batteries  of  guns  of  this  Portu- 
guese man-o'-war,  and  cause  it  to  be  avoided 
by  many  fishes  and  other  animals  that  might 
otherwise  like  to  eat  it.  If  you  should  put  your 
hand  into  this  tangle  you  would  quickly  with- 
draw it,  red  and  smarting  almost  as  if  you  had 
thrust  it  into  flame. 

Big  things  like  whales  and  turtles  gulp  down 
the  physalias,  but  even  the  green  turtle,  which 
is  fond  of  them,  is  often  rendered  almost  blind 
by  the  stings  inflicted  upon  its  lidless  eyes ;  and 
Professor  Mayer  says  that  the  loggerhead  in- 
variably shuts  its  eyes  when  it  seizes  one. 
Nevertheless,  extraordinary  as  it  may  appear, 
certain  small  fishes  habitually  hide  themselves 
beneath  this  fiery  veil  from  their  worse  enemies 
without ;  they  go  and  come  after  their  own  food, 
accompany  the  physalia  as  it  travels,  and  live 
amid  its  tentacles  as  a  refuge.  Yet,  for  many 
of  them,  it  is  only  a  leaping  from  the  ashes  into 
the  fire,  for  every  now  and  then  their  protector 
seizes  and  consumes  one  of  the  panic-stricken 


A  Tiny  Man-o'-War 

r 

flock,  whether  as  payment  for  "  protection " 
or  pour  encourager  les  autres  you  may  decide 
for  yourself. 

A  third  sort  of  zooid,  hanging  like  the  others 
in  bunches  attached  to  the  float  by  a  single  cen- 
tral stem,  comprises  those  whose  function  is 
reproductive.  These  are  shaped  like  Indian 
clubs  and  have  purple  walls  and  a  creamy  inte- 
rior. Like  all  the  other  appendages,  they  are 
in  continual  motion,  waving  about,  writhing, 
contracting  and  dilating  with  the  eternal  rest- 
lessness of  the  sea  itself,  and  ever  the  rainbow 
lights  shift  and  glide  beneath  the  silvery  sheen. 

Such  is  the  structure  and  history  of  this  ele- 
gant creature,  which  seems  as  fragile  as  if 
blown  of  thin  glass  and  draped  with  gossamer, 
yet  survives  the  beating  of  gales  and  the  tur- 
moil of  the  billows.  It  has  many  exquisite  filmy 
relatives  in  the  warmer  seas,  some  of  which  are 
frequently  met  with  even  on  the  coasts  of  New 
England. 

Buzzard's  and  Narragansett  bays,  indeed, 
having  a  southern  opening,  receive  numbers  of 
these  and  other  tropical  visitors  every  season. 

^  79  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

All  are  less  conspicuous  than  the  physalia,  be- 
cause more  transparent  and  colorless,  but  they 
are  more  fairy-like  in  delicacy.  Instead  of  a 
big  crested  float  they  have  one  or  more  small 
floats,  made  buoyant  in  some  cases  by  a  filling 
of  an  oily  substance.  An  exquisite  example  is 
Nanomia.  Another  is  Vellela,  which  lifts  from 
its  purplish,  raft-like  disk  a  triangular  sail  by 
which  to  trim  its  course  to  the  breeze. 

Of  the  latter,  also  a  siphonophore,  Prof.  A. 
G.  Mayer  gives  the  following  description  in  his 
valuable  "  Seashore  Life  " : 

"  Vellela  mutica  is  an  exquisite  creature  rarely 
seen  along  our  [northern]  coasts,  but  it  occurs 
in  great  swarms  in  the  tropical  Atlantic.  The 
body  is  an  oblong  disk  about  four  inches  long, 
and  deep  blue-green  in  color.  The  upper  side 
of  the  disk  is  occupied  by  the  chambered,  gas- 
filled  float,  which  is  chitinous  and  gives  rise  to 
a  sail-like  crest.  On  the  under  side  of  the  disk 
we  find  a  large  central  feeding-mouth  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  numerous  little  mouths 
and  reproductive  polypites.  Near  the  outer 
edge  of  the  under  side  of  the  disk  there  is  a 
^  80  So* 


'A  Tiny  Man-o'-War 

r 

row  of  long  blue  tentacles.  Large  numbers  of 
little  jelly-fishes  are  constantly  budding  off  from 
the  sides  of  the  reproductive  polypites  and 
swimming  away  in  the  water;  but  their  further 
development  is  unknown. 

"  Porpita  linnaeana  is  related  to  Vellela,  but 
is  smaller,  being  only  about  one  inch  in  diame- 
ter; also  the  disk  is  flat  and  circular,  and  there 
is  no  sail-like  ridge  to  the  float.  When  seen 
in  the  water  it  appears  as  a  deep  blue  circle, 
while  the  chambered  float  at  the  center  glistens 
with  a  beautiful  greenish  iridescence.  Under- 
neath we  find  feeding  polypites  and  tentacles 
very  much  as  in  Vellela.  Porpita  is  rare  along 
our  coast,  but  between  Cuba  and  South  Caro- 
lina it  is  sometimes  so  abundant  as  to  fleck  the 
ocean  for  miles  with  specks  of  brilliant  blue." 

None  of  these  wanderers,  probably,  ever  sur- 
vives our  winter,  and  few,  if  any,  escape  it  by 
returning  to  the  Gulf  Stream,  against  whose 
current  they  could  make  little  headway  if  they 
tried* 


My  Snake-Stick 


IT  was  not  a  wooden  toy  made  in  imitation 
of  a  serpent,  like  one  of  those  unpleasant 
Japanese  things  ;  nor  a  cane  with  a  handle 
carved  like  a  snake's  head;  nor  a  cobra-hiding 
bamboo-tube,  such  as  Hindoo  assassins  use,  but 
simply  a  —  but  wait  a  bit. 

Helen  came  into  the  house  one  day  from 
the  other  side  of  the  creek,  looking  much  dis- 
turbed. 

"  I  have  seen  a  copperhead,"  she  stated,  as 
she  set  down  her  berry  basket. 

"  Nonsense  !  There  are  no  copperheads  here  ; 
and  you  wouldn't  know  one  if  you  saw  it,  any- 
how," said  I. 

"Wouldn't  I?  Perhaps  I  didn't  learn  any- 
thing about  a  copperhead  in  New  Jersey  the 
other  day  !  " 

I  could  not  gainsay  this  remark.  She  had 
been  with  a  botanical  party  in  the  suburbs  of 
<*$  82  5» 


My  Snake-Stick 

r 

Newark,  and  in  poking  about  a  brushy  pas- 
ture had  observed  a  large  snake  glide  out  of 
one  side  of  a  tuft  of  huckleberry  bushes  as  she 
placed  her  foot  into  the  other.  Both  halted  and 
looked  at  one  another,  the  sunlight  glancing 
off  the  girl's  chestnut  hair,  but  reflecting  no 
such  reddish  intensity  as  from  the  flat  and  bur- 
nished head  the  snake  held  erect,  while  it  calmly 
awaited  her  next  movement. 

"  A  copperhead !  "  she  called  out,  and  half  a 
dozen  young  men  rushed  gallantly  forward 
and  crushed  the  creature;  a  copperhead  sel- 
dom runs. 

The  professor  told  the  class  that  she  was 
right.  He  pried  open  the  mouth,  showed  them 
the  poison  fangs  hanging  like  curved  thorns 
from  the  upper  jaws,  and  explained  that  it  was 
a  true  pit-viper — a  rattlesnake,  except  that  it 
had  no  rattles,  but  only  a  horny  tip  to  the  tail; 
a  peculiarity  that  allied  it  with  the  moccasins 
of  Southern  swamps — the  two  forming  the  genus 
Ancistrodon. 

Helen  remembered  this  field-lesson  very  well; 
and  when  she  added  that  the  snake  she  had  just 


Ihe  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

seen  was  long  enough  to  reach  from  rut  to  rut 
of  the  wood  road  across  which  it  lay,  I  was 
bound  to  believe  her  identification. 

"  What  did  you  do?  "  I  asked. 

"Do?  I  stiffened  with  fright,  and  just 
looked  at  him  as  he  lifted  his  head  six  or  eight 
inches  from  the  ground  and  dared  me  to  disturb 
him.  I  turned  back  and  crept  home  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  around." 

"  Why  didn't  you  kill  him?  " 

"  I  had  nothing  to  do  it  with,  and  he  looked 
so  fierce  I  thought  he'd  leap  at  me  if  I  stayed 
there  an  instant  longer." 

"  But  those  snakes  never  attack  anybody  out 
of  their  reach,"  I  said. 

"  So  they  say.  But  I  didn't  care  to  take  the 
chances.  A  garter-snake  rushed  at  me  the  other 
day,  and  why  shouldn't  a  copperhead?  " 

"  Oh,  the  little,  harmless  serpents  have  to 
bluff  like  sixty  to  make  up  for  their  real  weak- 
ness; but  the  poisonous  ones  know  their  power 
and  don't  bluster.  Next  time  you  must  take  a 
good,  long  stick  with  you.  I'll  get  you  one 
now." 

+$  84  ^ 


My  Snake-Stick 

i 

A  straight  young  pig-nut  was  selected  forth- 
with, cut  down,  and  trimmed. 

It  was  a  beautiful  wand — straight  and  some 
eight  feet  long — much  farther  than  any  snake 
could  strike,  for  the  animal  never  jumps,  as 
popularly  understood,  but  only  darts  forth  its 
head  perhaps  half  the  length  of  the  body,  and 
it  was  tough  and  lithe,  so  that  its  pliant  tip 
would  lie  flat  along  the  ground  like  a  flail — 
an  ideal  snake-stick. 

A  serpent's  backbone  is  extremely  brittle.  A 
light,  sharp  blow  will  almost  invariably  break 
it,  fatally  injure  the  spinal  cord  and  render  the 
animal  helpless,  and  a  second  blow  on  the  head 
finish  it.  Yet  so  sluggish  is  the  nervous  life 
and  so  intense  the  muscular  energy  that  the 
creature  will  often  seem  to  remain  alive — espe- 
cially toward  its  tail — for  a  considerable  time. 
This  is  partly  reflex  energy,  and  partly  nothing 
more  than  the  mechanical  action  resulting  from 
unequal  changes  in  the  tension  of  the  muscles 
following  death.  These  muscles  are  small  and 
extremely  numerous,  controlling  each  of  the 
many  ribs ;  and  as  they  stiffen  and  loosen  irregu- 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

larly  they  move  the  slender  hinder  end  of  the 
body  with  an  appearance  of  life;  and  so  the 
country  boys  will  tell  you  that  no  snake  will 
die  until  sundown. 

I  was  returning  home  along  the  same  wood- 
land road  the  next  day,  when  my  eye  caught  a 
peculiar  quiver  and  became  aware  of  a  narrow, 
tapering  object  as  large  as  a  lead  pencil,  and  of 
the  richest  burnt  sienna  red  color,  right  beside 
my  foot.  I  wasn't  jumping  to  make  a  record — 
so  it  is  not  worth  while  to  state  precisely  how 
much  ground  was  cleared  in  the  bound  that  fol- 
lowed, but  it  was  considerable.  Then  I  looked 
back.  There  lay  the  tail  slowly  vibrating  from 
side  to  side  like  that  of  an  angry  cat;  and  be- 
yond it  could  be  distinguished  a  sinuous  body, 
dull  reddish-yellow,  very  thick  in  the  middle, 
and  tapering  toward  each  end,  with  angular 
dusky  blotches  forming  a  zigzag  pattern  along 
its  sides.  Unquestionably  this  was  a  "  pilot," 
as  people  here  in  the  Hudson  Valley  call  the 
copperhead. 

It  is  said  to  be  the  peculiar  distinction  of 
this  snake  that  it  will  turn  and  bite  you  as  you 
^  86  ^ 


My  Snake-Stick 

r 

pass  without  any  preliminary  movement  or 
warning.  But  this  specimen  did  nothing  of 
the  sort,  nor  did  he  even  draw  himself  into  a 
coil,  but  simply  lay  still,  with  upraised  head  and 
attentive  eye,  in  which  I  thought  I  saw  a  cynical 
glare,  as  if  the  creature  might  be  saying  to 
himself :  "  Well,  if  I  was  a  great  animal  like 
that  I  wouldn't  jump  at  the  sight  of  as  small 
a  thing  as  I  am." 

The  path  was  one  we  continually  used ;  often 
after  dark.  That  this  reptile  must  be  put  out 
of  the  way  was  certain,  but  how? 

The  reader  may  deem  this  much  ado  about 
nothing ;  but  there  is  to  me,  as  to  most  persons, 
I  believe,  a  peculiar  terror  in  approaching  a 
poisonous  snake,  an  unexplained,  yet  real  repug- 
nance felt  for  all  reptiles,  originating,  no  doubt, 
in  the  frequent  inability  to  distinguish  at  a 
glance  between  venomous  and  non-venomous 
kinds,  and  strengthened  by  heredity. 

This  feeling  must  have  arisen  in  a  primitive 
time  when  our  forefathers  dwelt  in  the  jungle — 
a  tropical  jungle,  one  must  believe — where  many 
serpents  were  dangerous,  so  that  it  behooved 
^  87  fo> 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

every  one  to  halt  and  scan  a  snake  carefully 
the  instant  it  was  seen  (and  that  is  not,  you  may 
be  sure,  until  after  it  has  seen  you)  to  make 
sure  it  was  not  a  cobra  or  something  of  the 
sort.  Such  a  habit  and  dread  impressed  upon 
children  as  their  first  lesson  in  the  cautions  of 
woodcraft,  would  become  ingrained  into  the  very 
brain  of  the  race  as  an  almost  instinctive  fear. 
By  no  amount  of  knowledge  or  philosophy  can 
I  rid  myself  of  this  gruesome  inheritance.  I 
have  known  good  naturalists  who  have  said  the 
same  thing,  and  confessed  that  it  made  a  serious 
drawback  to  the  pleasure  of  their  rambles. 

Others,  on  the  contrary,  handle  the  bad  ones, 
cautiously,  but  calmly,  and  play  with  the  harm- 
less ones  with  no  more  repugnance  than  if  they 
were  fishes  or  salamanders  or  frogs, — cold  and 
reptilian  things,  by  the  way,  that  it  does  not 
disturb  me  to  handle.  It  is  a  curious  coincidence 
that  most  of  these  fearless  persons  are  in  terror 
of  spiders! 

To  be  reasonably  "  afraid  of  snakes  "  is  the 
safer  state  of  mind,  however,  in  the  eastern  part 
of  this  country,  where  every  rocky  hill  west  of 


My  Snake-Stick 

r 

the  Connecticut  River  is  likely  to  harbor  rattle- 
snakes, or  copperheads,  or  both.  The  rugged 
hills  along  the  Hudson  abound  in  them;  and 
they  occasionally  come  into  our  paths  and  little 
clearings  in  the  woods  on  the  rough  hillside  and 
would  lie  basking  in  the  sun;  that  is,  we  or 
others  frequently  saw  them,  and  usually  were 
able  to  kill  them,  for  they  seemed  indifferent 
about  moving,  though  they  can  run  swiftly 
when  they  please.  Their  hunting  and  wander- 
ing about  is  done  mainly  at  night,  as  with  most 
terrestrial  animals. 

One  day  a  party  of  young  ladies  from  Vas- 
sar  College  came  across  the  river  for  a  day's 
ramble  in  the  woods,  and  encountered  a  hand- 
some snake,  about  eighteen  inches  long,  lying 
stretched  right  at  our  steps  (no  one  was  at  home 
that  day)  as  if  it  owned  the  place.  They  gath- 
ered about  it  and  one  of  the  girls  stooped  down 
and  began  to  stroke  it,  first  with  a  little  stick 
and  then  with  her  bare  hand.  But  when  my 
neighbor  came  along,  and,  keeping  his  wits 
about  him,  had  discreetly  got  the  fair  enthu- 
siast out  of  harm's  way,  he  set  off  a  "  Vassar 

*$  89  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

yell,"  as  if  he  had  touched  an  electric  button, 
by  the  remark :  "  That's  a  half -grown  copper- 
head!" 

Another  time  I  saw  a  lady  stumble  over  a  small 
copperhead,  and  positively  disentangle  it  from 
her  dancing  feet  without  being  bitten.  Prob- 
ably this  snake  was  as  much  disconcerted  as 
the  other  had  been  soothed. 

These  incidents  illustrate  what  you  can  do 
with  even  a  rattlesnake — sometimes;  but  it  is  a 
mighty  unsafe  experiment  to  indulge.  You 
can  make  no  bargain  with  a  viper!  Which 
brings  me  back  to  my  snake  in  the  grass — the 
first  I  had  ever  encountered. 

Certainly  this  copperhead  must  be  dispatched 
— but  how? 

I  could  see  no  club  anywhere  near.  I  had  in 
my  pocket  a  new  knife  which  had  lately  been 
given  to  me — with  a  lovely  desire  to  please, 
but  very  poor  judgment  in  cutlery.  The  first 
time  I  had  used  it  the  blade  had  turned  up  as  if 
it  were  tin.  Nevertheless,  with  it  I  gradually 
hacked  off  a  stout  oak  sapling — a  very  fair 
snake-stick. 

*$  90  £•» 


My  Snake- Stick 

r 

The  reptile  quietly  watched  my  actions  until 
he  saw  that  I  had  a  weapon  and  was  going  for 
him,  when  he  started  off.  I  darted  forward  and 
a  couple  of  vigorous  whacks  broke  his  back; 
and,  turning  him  over  until  the  ugly  black  spots 
on  his  yellow  belly  were  uppermost,  I  tossed  him 
far  into  the  bushes,  and  gave  thanks  that  he  was 
out  of  the  way  of  the  children  who  played  up 
and  down  the  lane;  and  of  the  little  white  dog, 
who,  however,  was  afterward  bitten  on  the  toe 
and  nearly  died. 

A  few  days  later  the  ladies  of  our  camp 
were  going  along  that  same  woodland  road  to 
town  one  morning,  when  they  suddenly  came 
upon  two  large  copperheads  stretched  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  track.  Their  startled  halt  and 
nervous  grip  of  snake-sticks — none  of  them  ven- 
tured out  now  without  snake-sticks — accom- 
panied by  the  thought  that  there  was  a  battle 
to  be  fought,  were  followed  by  the  discovery 
that  both  were  dead — killed  by  some  other  ram- 
bler, as  the  broken  boughs  and  stones  lying 
about  testified.  Of  course  it  had  never  occurred 
to  him  to  get  rid  of  the  bodies  as  a  matter  of 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

good  taste,  or  because  they  might  possibly 
shock  nervous  people.  The  average  rustic  is 
not  built  in  that  considerate  way.  We  learnt 
afterward  that  a  man  had  encountered  these 
reptiles  here  as  he  came  along  in  the  early  morn- 
ing. One  was  coiled  up,  he  related,  and  the 
other  was  circling  about  it.  They  paid  no  at- 
tention to  him,  and  after  watching  them  a  while 
he  destroyed  them. 

It  is  probable  that  these  two  snakes  were  fe- 
males, about  to  give  birth  to  their  young.  The 
progeny,  usually  no  more  than  five  to  seven  in 
number,  are  not  produced  from  eggs,  as  in  the 
case  of  most  harmless  snakes,  but,  some  time 
in  September,  are  born  alive  and  very  much 
alive,  for  they  exhibit  after  a  few  hours  all 
the  activity  and  animosity  of  their  parents, 
coiling  and  striking  at  anything  which  threat- 
ens them,  with  complete  knowledge  of  how  to 
use  their  fangs.  When  hard  pressed,  however, 
they  will  retreat  for  safety  into  the  mouth  of 
the  mother,  to  reappear  when  the  coast  is 
clear. 

After  that  experience  none  of  us,  men   or 


My  Snake-Stick 
| 

women,  went  anywhere  in  the  woods  without 
carrying  a  snake-stick. 

This  copperhead,  or  red  adder,  is  reputed  to 
be  a  lover  of  dry  lands.  In  the  northern  part 
of  his  range,  which  reaches  eastward  to  the 
Connecticut  River  and  northward  to  the  Cat- 
skills  and  follows  the  Appalachian  ridges  south- 
westward,  his  proper  home  is  on  the  wild 
mountains,  where  he  makes  a  den  among  the 
rocks. 

Whether  it  was  really  a  "  headquarters,"  in- 
habited by  a  regular  colony  of  copperheads,  as 
has  been  known  to  be  the  habit  of  rattlesnakes, 
or  whether  it  was  just  a  gathering  for  hiberna- 
tion in  company,  as  is  the  custom  of  many  kinds 
of  snakes,  I  do  not  know;  but  something  very 
like  a  den  was  discovered  a  few  years  after. 

We  had  lived  on  the  hillside  half  a  dozen  years 
and  had  seen  and  heard  of  a  few  serpents  near 
us  every  year.  Meanwhile  two  or  three  other 
houses  had  been  built  in  the  woods  on  the  ridge, 
and  some  peat-bogs  had  been  drained  and  turned 
into  market-gardens  near  us.  All  these  occupa- 
tions had  been  accompanied  by  the  death  of  a 
<*?  93  5» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

good  many  copperheads,  and  we  began  to  think 
we  were  really  getting  rid  of  them  when  some 
workmen  on  a  neighbor's  house  suspected  their 
presence  at  a  certain  spot  among  the  ledges 
and  fallen  rocks,  and  were  told  to  spend  an  hour 
of  their  time  daily  in  hunting  them  out.  This 
was  toward  the  first  of  April,  when  the  after- 
noon warmed  the  sheltered  stones  considerably, 
and  enticed  them  to  the  surface.  They  were 
found  one  by  one  in  crevices  under  leaves,  be- 
neath loose  rocks,  and  sometimes  out  in  the  sun- 
shine drowsy  and  inactive,  so  that  it  was  an  easy 
matter  to  kill  them,  and  forty-four  of  various 
sizes  were  destroyed  before  the  place  seemed 
empty.  This  was  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the 
famous  summer-cottage  "  Slabsides "  of  Mr. 
John  Burroughs ;  and  his  path  to  our  spring,  as 
well  as  my  road  in  and  out  to  the  highway,  lay 
right  along  the  base  of  these  danger-haunted 
rocks ! 

But  the  people  who  dwell  in  the  rough  coun- 
try between  the  Hudson  and  the  Blue  Ridge 
have  been  alongside  of  this  danger  all  their  life, 
and  lose  no  sleep  over  it,  which  shows  not  only 
<*>§  94  £» 


s 

&JD 


I 


^o 

< 


My  Snake-Stick 

r 

that  men  grow  accustomed  to  peril,  but  that  in 
this  case  the  peril  is  not  really  great,  for  it 
is  evident  that,  at  least  in  the  daytime,  the 
snake  is  not  at  all  aggressive,  though  able  and 
willing  to  fight  when  attacked  or  provoked ;  and 
that  reminds  me  of  the  experience  of  Mrs.  Tom 
Murphy,  who  lived  in  a  log-cabin  in  the  woods 
about  a  mile  up  Black  Creek. 

"  Wan  day,"  as  she  told  Helen,  "  I  stepped 
out  o'  my  doore  and  there  on  top  of  a  rock  fer- 
ninst  the  well  lay  a  pilot  all  curled  up,  and  the 
childers  all  playing  close  by  without  a  wan  of 
'em  noticin'  the  baste.  I  let  a  yell  out  o'  me, 
and  I  picked  up  the  first  thing  handy,  a  shovel, 
'n  whacked  the  shnake  over  the  head,  'n  he 
sthruck  me  hand,  an'  I  knew  thin  I  was  gone. 
I  threw  the  baste  into  the  brush,  and  then  called 
the  childers  'n  run  into  the  cabin.  I  was  want- 
in'  to  die  as  daycent  as  maybe,  and  I  wint  and 
lay  down  on  the  bed,  biddin'  the  childers  all 
good-by  and  lavin'  word  with  'em  for  the  ould 
man  at  his  wurrk  in  the  ice-house.  Thin  I  sint 
'em  all  out  again  so  they  shouldn't  see  me  in 
me  agonies. 

*>$  95  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

"  I  lay  there  all  straight  out,  as  if  I  was  a 
corpse  at  a  foine  wake,  wid  me  hands  folded 
proper,  awaitin'  to  die,  and  wanst  in  a  while  the 
young  wans  'd  come  in  and  say :  '  Are  ye  dead 
yit,  mamma?  '  'nd  I'd  say:  '  Not  yit.'  And—- 
wad ye  believe  it? — I  lay  there  more'n  two 
hours,  composin'  meself  and  praying  to  the  Vir- 
gin, and  I  niver  died  wanst!  Then  I  said  to 
meself :  '  It's  an  ould  fool  you  are,  Mrs.  Mur- 
phy,' and  I  got  up." 

But  all  this  information  as  to  the  manners 
and  customs  of  this  lurking  danger  of  the  north- 
ern woods  was  gained  long  after  the  occurrence 
which  I  started  out  to  tell  much  more  briefly — 
namely,  how  we  verified  Helen's  assertion  that 
she  knew  a  copperhead  when  she  saw  it;  and, 
secondarily,  how  we  lost  faith  in  a  theory.  The 
theory  was  that  this  is  a  dry-land  snake  exclu- 
sively. Compared  with  its  cousin,  the  black 
water  moccasin,  it  is;  and  down  South  they 
distinguish  it  as  the  upland  moccasin,  and  look 
out  for  it  in  the  cottonfields  where  it  hunts 
for  mice.  But  in  our  region  we  learned  that 
the  tribe  regularly  migrates  from  the  stony 
*>$  96  £» 


My  Snake-Stick 

r 

hills,  where  it  spends  the  winter,  to  the  swamps 
and  river-courses  and  meadows,  where  it  passes 
the  summer  and  finds  its  food  abundant;  and 
May  and  October  are  the  months  when  it  makes 
its  migratory  journeys  and  is  most  often  seen 
— or  felt.  But  at  that  time,  relying  upon  the 
books,  we  felt  safe  along  the  creek,  where  vari- 
ous water-loving  snakes,  as  the  racers,  were  not 
uncommon. 

One  afternoon  we  were  all  down  at  this  stream, 
where  we  had  an  old  skiff,  so  leaky  that  Helen 
said  she  always  felt  like  a  criminal  when  she 
was  using  it — out  on  bail. 

The  creek  was  obstructed  just  below  the  land- 
ing by  a  fallen  tree.  Its  broad  disk  of  up- 
turned roots  was  reared  in  the  air  near  our  bank, 
while  its  trunk  extended  clear  across  the  stream. 
If  it  could  be  broken  our  boat  might  float  a 
long  distance  beyond  it. 

So  one  day  Helen  paddled  me  out  to  it  in« 
the  boat,  and  I  pulled  off  shoes  and  stockings, 
and  scrambled  out  upon  the  old  log  to  examine 
into  the  matter.  I  was  walking  upward  along 
the  trunk  toward  the  roots,  when  at  a  cry  I 
+  97  So* 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

glanced  back  to  see  the  girl  pointing  in  terror 
to  where,  just  ahead,  a  great  copperhead  lay 
festooned  in  rich  golden  undulations  along  the 
topmost  rim  of  the  pile  of  roots.  The  eyes — 
that  are  really  red,  but  looked  black  above  the 
cream-white  lips  that  hid  his  fangs  but  dis- 
played the  forked  flame  of  his  tongue — were 
fixed  upon  me,  and  slow,  wave-like  wrinklings 
crept  along  his  thick,  burnished,  heavily  scaled 
sides,  which  were  flattened  and  met  in  a  ridge 
upon  the  spine  like  a  slated  roof. 

I  stared  back  at  him.  Barefooted,  weapon- 
less and  balancing  myself  upon  that  smooth 
bridge,  I  had  no  means  of  fighting,  yet  was  re- 
solved not  to  let  the  venomous  thing  escape. 

As  I  gazed  the  serpent,  with  no  winding  mo- 
tion whatever  such  as  we  use  in  coiling  a  rope, 
but  slowly,  by  the  contraction  of  every  part  at 
once,  drew  himself  into  a  heap,  part  coil,  part 
folds ;  and  there  he  lay — a  gorgeous  pyramid 
of  coppery  gold  upon  the  very  summit  of  the 
earth-clogged  roots,  his  head  elevated,  his  ar- 
mor reflecting  the  sunlight,  and  his  daggers 
drawn. 

«•$  98  5» 


My  Snake-Stick 

r 

"  And  to  think,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  under 
her  breath,  "  that  yesterday  I  went  wading  close 
by  that  stump,  to  get  that  cast-skin  I  took  home 
— perhaps  the  old  coat  of  this  very  snake ! — 
and  came  within  an  inch  of  clambering  up 
among  those  very  roots !  And,  look !  I  can  see 
the  hole  where  he  lives." 

Finding  that  this  bravo  of  our  jungle,  ac- 
customed to  fear  nothing  the  woods  or  water 
contained  (excepting  only  the  all-conquering 
blacksnakes),  meant  to  stay  upon  his  throne, 
un alarmed  by  our  presence,  I  asked  a  little 
boy  standing  on  the  river-bank  to  fetch  my 
revolver  from  the  camp.  Then  I  went  back 
into  the  boat,  put  on  my  footgear  and  we  went 
ashore. 

Taking  the  pistol  in  one  hand  and  Helen's 
well-tried  snake-stick  in  the  other,  I  crept 
through  the  bushes  to  a  position  in  the  rear  of 
the  old  stump.  The  snake  scrutinized  the 
movements  with  vigilant  eyes,  arched  his  neck 
with  increased  ferocity,  yet  changed  position 
only  far  enough  to  face  me  well  when  I  men- 
aced him  from  the  new  direction. 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

He  was  now  above  me  and  had  so  much  the 
advantage,  if  he  dared  to  throw  himself  down, 
that  I  confess  to  some  timidity  about  going  too 
near,  and  therefore  opened  fire  at  the  distance 
of  a  dozen  feet. 

None  but  a  long  practiced  hand  can  attain  to 
accuracy  with  a  "  bulldog  "  pistol,  short  and 
heavy,  and  the  first  ball  passed  through  the 
shell  of  earth  beneath  the  living  target,  caus- 
ing it  to  shrink  down  into  a  much  smaller  mark. 
The  next  bullet  sang  close  beside  his  head,  now 
stretched  out  with  rigid,  slender  neck — though 
even  to  the  last  moment  his  mouth  was  never 
opened,  as  the  pictures  invariably  represent  it 
to  be  in  such  contests  as  this. 

The  third  bullet  plowed  a  furrow  across  his 
back  and  filled  the  animal  with  rage.  Swing- 
ing around  like  a  flash  of  yellow  light  he  thrust 
his  head  straight  toward  me  with  vicious  energy, 
until  more  than  half  his  body  was  extended  be- 
yond any  support,  and  for  an  instant  I  thought 
he  meant  to  dart  through  the  air  like  a  living 
lance.  Dropping  the  revolver,  I  dashed  for- 
ward and  with  one  blow  of  the  snake-stick  broke 
+§  100  £» 


My  Snake-Stick 

f 

his  knotted  neck,  and  the  writhing,  deadly  coil 
of  red  and  gold  stretched  out,  dropped  like 
a  spent  rocket  into  the  water  and  slid  away 
down  the  rapids. 


101 


Animals  that  Advertise 

r 

THE  literal  meaning  of  the  expression  to 
advertise  is  "  to  turn  toward,"  and  we 
have  stuck  to  it  much  more  closely  than 
to  most  words  derived  from  a  foreign  language. 
Every  man  who  issues  an  advertisement  tries 
to  turn  your  attention,  if  not  your  person  and 
pocket,  to  him  and  his  wares.    Now,  in  this  sense, 
a  great  many  animals  are  truly  advertisers,  fol- 
lowing primitive  methods. 

The  first  form  of  advertising  was  the  one 
still  followed  in  barbarous  countries  and  in  some 
of  our  rustic  communities — that  of  crying  out 
one's  occupation,  or  wares,  or  whatever  an- 
nouncement is  to  be  made.  The  voice  of  such 
criers,  alas !  is  still  to  be  heard  in  the  land,  and 
strangers  usually  need  to  be  told  what  the  man 
is  saying ;  but  the  crier's  voice  and  the  cadence 
of  the  shout  quickly  become  familiar  to  his  cus- 
tomary hearers.  They  are  just  putting  an  end 
«0£  102  £» 


Animals  that  Advertise 

r 

to  one  of  the  relics  of  this  practice  in  London 
by  stopping  the  cry  of  the  chimney-sweeps, 
which  is  only  a  long  wail,  the  original  words  of 
which  were  long  ago  lost  and  forgotten;  and 
this  very  year  I  heard  them  in  the  old  town  of 
Stirling,  in  Scotland,  telling  the  people  when 
certain  excursion  trains  left  on  the  railway. 

Another  very  early  form  of  advertising,  not 
yet  quite  extinct,  was  the  display  of  some  sym- 
bol of  the  business  done,  like  the  mortar  and 
pestle  of  the  druggist,  the  uplifted  hammer  of 
the  goldsmith,  or  a  more  conventional  symbol, 
such  as  a  green  bough,  to  indicate  a  wine-shop — 
whence  the  proverb  "  Good  wine  needs  no  bush." 
Now,  one  or  the  other,  or  both,  of  these  meth- 
ods are  used  by  animals  to  make  announcements 
which  they  desire  to  publish. 

These  announcements  mainly — perhaps  alto- 
gether— fall  under  the  heads  of  information  to 
the  evilly  disposed  or  careless  to  "  keep  off," 
warning  to  friends  of  danger ;  challenge  to  the 
prize  ring;  and  desire  for  a  mate.  The  mar- 
riage advertisement,  indeed,  is  one  of  the  oldest 
and  most  ubiquitous  institutions  in  nature,  in- 

«•$  103  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

stead  of  a  modern  notion,  the  product  of  news- 
paper enterprise,  as  most  of  us  consider  it. 

You  see  that  I  am  leaving  aside  here  the 
varied  utterances,  tones  and  inflections  by  which 
the  higher  animals  really  converse  with  one  an- 
other. That  is  speech,  not  advertising.  And 
I  wish  to  add  another  prefatory  word,  though 
perhaps  it  is  needless — namely,  that  of  course 
we  must  not  suppose  that  the  animals  think  of 
these  announcements  in  our  sense  of  the  word 
"  advertisement,"  but  are  moved  by  various  im- 
pulses, some  instinctive,  some  physical,  some  ac- 
cidental, even  though  they  may  desire  to  obtain 
the  effect  they  more  usually  succeed  in  getting 
than  do  human  advertisers. 

Take  the  case  of  the  rattlesnake.  When  he 
shakes  his  castanets  above  the  horrid  coil  where 
deadly  fangs  await  his  enemy,  he  says  as  plainly 
as  the  motto  on  Paul  Jones's  flag,  "  Don't  tread 
on  me !  "  All  and  sundry  hear  and  heed. 

He  keeps  quiet  enough  when  not  aroused  by 

fear.     I  remember  camping  once  in  a  villainous 

sage-brush   desert  in   southern   Idaho.      I  had 

taken  off  my  boots,  put  on  a  pair  of  moccasins, 

^  104  ^ 


Animals  that  Advertise 

r 

and  started  toward  a  near-by  stream  for  a  pail 
of  water,  when  I  almost  stepped  on  a  rattler, 
which  my  light  footfall  had  not  awakened.  I 
sprang  away  and  in  an  instant  his  rattle  was 
going,  faster  and  faster,  singing  higher  and 
higher,  as  he  saw  me  preparing  to  attack  him. 
He  did  his  very  best  to  let  me  know  how  danger- 
ous he  was,  as  he  would  have  done  if  a  deer,  or 
horse,  or  anything  else  he  had  reason  to  fear  had 
come  near. 

Animal  advertising  with  this  purpose,  how- 
ever, is  more  often  addressed  to  the  eye  than 
to  the  ear,  and  consists  in  the  wearing  and  dis- 
play, sometimes  in  moments  of  fear  or  defiance 
only,  often  continuously,  of  a  conspicuous 
badge,  which  all  the  people  of  the  woods  recog- 
nize as  the  sign  of  a  creature  not  to  be  meddled 
with  with  impunity. 

The  advertisement  here  takes  the  form  usually 
of  some  striking  color-marking  or  badge;  and 
our  American  skunk  has  been  a  classic  example 
ever  since  Wallace  spoke  of  its  broad  white 
bands  and  bushy  white  tail.  That  tail  is  held 
aloft  as  he  marches  through  the  grass  or  along 

+§  105  5» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

the  road  in  the  dusk,  and  cannot  fail  to  be  seen ; 
and  you  bow  before  that  flag  with  becoming 
meekness — or  take  the  consequences ! 

Another  striking  example,  as  familiar  in  Eu- 
rope as  is  the  skunk  in  America,  is  afforded  by 
the  fire-bellied  toad,  which  the  Germans  call 
unke.  Its  upper  parts  are  greenish-black,  but 
the  under  parts  are  conspicuously  colored  blu- 
ish-black, with  large,  irregular  red  or  flame-col- 
ored patches.  When  one  of  these  toads  is  sur- 
prised on  land,  or  roughly  touched,  it  invariably 
throws  back  its  head,  spreads  its  limbs  outward 
and  upward,  and  curves  up  its  whole  body,  so 
that  as  much  as  possible  of  the  bright  red  mark- 
ings is  displayed;  and  it  remains  in  this  posi- 
tion until  the  danger  has  disappeared. 

"  In  reality,"  says  Gadow,  "  this  is  an  exhibi- 
tion of  warning  colors,  to  show  the  enemy  what 
a  dangerous  animal  he  would  have  to  deal  with. 
The  secretion  of  the  skin  is  very  poisonous,  and 
the  fire-toads  are  thereby  well  protected.  I  know 
of  no  creature  which  will  eat  or  even  harm 
them.  I  have  kept  numbers  in  a  large  vivarium, 
together  with  various  snakes,  water-tortoises, 

<$  106  5» 


Animals  that  Advertise 

f 

and  crocodiles,  but  for  years  the  little  fire- 
bellies  remained  unmolested,  although  they 
shared  a  pond  in  which  no  other  frog  or  newt 
could  live  without  being  eaten." 

That  such  advertising  of  character  and  qual- 
ity has  proved  serviceable  to  each  race  practic- 
ing it  is  implied  in  the  fact  that  it  is  most 
strongly  manifested  in  those  of  most  decided 
harmfulness  in  one  way  or  another. 

Among  insects,  for  example,  many  are  so 
distasteful  to  birds  that  they  go  about  in  broad 
daylight  quite  fearless  of  being  snatched  by  the 
fly-catchers  which  compel  most  insects  to  fly 
abroad  only  under  cover  of  night  and  hide 
quietly  during  daylight  hours. 

In  every  case  such  nasty-tasting  insects  are 
now  brilliantly  colored  and  are  easily  recog- 
nized, which  has  been  gradually  brought  about 
through  the  fact  that  the  brightest — the  most 
quickly  recognized,  the  best  advertisers — sur- 
vived to  perpetuate  their  kind  with  an  ever-in- 
creasing tendency  toward  more  perfect  protec- 
tion, while  the  less  well  marked  suffered  acci- 
dents. 

*$  107  &* 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

One  has  to  be  very  careful  in  treating  a  scien- 
tific subject  in  this  somewhat  figurative  style 
not  to  give  a  wrong  impression — that  is,  not 
to  lead  the  reader  to  suppose  that  the  changes 
which  have  come  about  toward  protective  colora- 
tion or  other  beneficial  adaptation  to  its  cir- 
cumstances have  been  by  intention  on  the  part 
of  the  animal  itself.  Hence  it  is  dangerous  to 
say  that  the  trademarks  of  such  advertisers  as 
these  last-named  insects  have  been  counterfeited. 

Nevertheless,  that  in  effect  has  happened ;  and 
many  species  of  butterflies,  beetles,  etc.,  which 
had  no  noxious  qualities,  are  partaking  of  the 
benefits  of  this  color-protection  by  acquiring  a 
likeness  to  the  bad  ones,  since  birds  avoid  them 
under  the  mistake  that  they  are  what  their  label 
declares. 

Advertisement  of  warning  to  other  animals 
that  danger  threatens  may  take  the  form  of 
peculiar  cries,  or  of  attitudes,  or  of  a  display 
of  colors  or  of  parts  of  the  body.  Tell-tale  snipe 
are  so  called  by  gunners  because  the  instant 
they  discover  the  sportsman  they  begin  yelling 
the  news  far  and  wide,  arousing  the  whole  marsh. 

*$  108  &* 


Animals  that  Advertise 

f 

Animals  like  wild  sheep,  which  go  in  bands 
about  a  rough  country,  are  extremely  watchful 
of  each  other,  and  need  only  to  see  one  of  their 
number  in  an  attitude  of  attention,  with  head 
up  and  ears  pricked  forward,  to  become  suspi- 
cious and  ready  for  flight.  The  white-tailed 
deer  and  pronghorn  set  their  dazzling  white 
scuts  erect  when  their  suspicions  are  aroused, 
and  thus  signal  (you  can  see  it  half  a  mile  away 
on  the  plains)  to  every  member  of  the  band  to 
be  cautious. 

But  the  most  numerous  and  striking  of  ani- 
mal advertisements  are  those  which,  as  has  been 
said,  refer  to  mating.  These  are  of  two  classes 
— the  challenges  and  assembly  calls  of  the  males, 
and  the  display  of  their  qualities  before  the 
females. 

Marriage  among  the  higher  animals  is  in 
many  cases  a  mere  seizure  of  the  available  fe- 
males by  compulsion  and  a  holding  of  them  by 
force,  and  here  it  is  mainly  polygamous.  Among 
those  which  are  not  polygamous,  but  are  con- 
tent with  a  single  mate  for  the  season,  the  choice 
is  made  by  the  female  from  such  males  as  com- 

«•$  109  5» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

pete  for  her  favor.  Humanity  has  not  greatly 
departed  from  this  natural  plan. 

In  any  case,  competition  decides  the  matter, 
and  this  competition  may  be  one  in  brute 
strength  or  of  milder  qualities,  such  as  attrac- 
tiveness of  shape,  color,  ornament  or  voice,  or  a 
combination  of  these. 

As  the  time  of  the  year  comes  round  when 
mates  are  to  be  chosen,  the  would-be  bride- 
grooms of  the  first  class  issue  their  challenges 
to  all  competitors.  The  alligators  make  the 
tropical  marshes  resound  with  their  hoarse  bel- 
lowings,  and  the  stagnant  pools  boil  as  they 
rush  at  one  another,  clashing  their  huge  jaws 
and  lashing  their  mighty  tails.  The  victor  is 
lord  of  the  pool  and  of  the  horrid  harem  that 
lurks  among  the  reeds  about  its  margin. 

At  the  same  season  the  lion  roars  out  his 
defiance  to  all  other  lions,  saying :  "  Come  and 
conquer  me  if  you  can ;  the  prize  of  beauty 
awaits  you  if  you  are  better  than  I ! "  Then 
the  moonlit  sands  are  dyed  with  the  blood  of 
these  kings  of  the  desert,  and  when  the  combat 
is  finished  sleek  golden-eyed  queens  steal  lightly 

*$  110  S* 


Animals  that  Advertise 

r 

out  of  the  shadows  and  fawn  upon  the  victor  of 
the  tournament,  who  to-morrow  must  again 
fight  for  them  in  the  arena  or  lose  their  allegi- 
ance. 

In  northern  forests,  when  the  long  sweet  days 
of  Indian  summer  suffuse  the  air  with  golden 
radiance,  the  bull  moose  and  wapiti  tell  the  world 
the  same  story  of  desire.  They  publish  it  from 
hilltop  to  hilltop  in  sonorous,  bell-like  calls  that 
summon  eager  contestants — for  these  advertise- 
ments never  fail  of  an  answer;  and  if  the  new- 
comer can  vanquish  the  old  knight  of  the  herd 
the  meek  does  are  his.  Many  of  the  smaller 
animals  thus  challenge  and  fight  for  supremacy. 
The  game-birds  do  so,  and  the  drumming  of  our 
grouse  is  an  announcement  of  such  purpose. 

But  milder  measures  prevail  in  the  larger 
part  of  animal  society,  where  the  beaux  seek 
to  recommend  themselves  to  the  belles  less  by 
prowess  than  by  accomplishments.  Their  ad- 
vertisement of  a  desire  to  marry  is  the  putting 
on  of  gayer  dress,  or  the  exhibition  of  their 
graces  and  attractions.  Even  the  "  cold- 
blooded "  fishes  (many  of  them,  at  least)  glow 
«0$  HI  5*. 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

with  rosy  color  as  the  breeding  season  ap- 
proaches. 

But  it  is  among  birds  that  the  display  of  col- 
ors and  ornaments  to  catch  the  female  eye  is 
carried  to  its  highest  perfection. 

"  In  the  spring  a  livelier  iris 
Comes  upon  the  burnished  dove," 

but  it  fades — or  perhaps  wears  away,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  gaudy  bobolink — before  the  summer 
is  over. 

In  some  cases  wholly  new  and  conspicuous 
ornamental  feathers  come  with  the  spring  moult 
and  are  not  renewed  in  the  fall,  so  that  they  seem 
wholly  for  the  purpose  of  aiding  in  courtship. 
Then  these  glories  of  color  and  ornament  are 
displayed  to  the  best  advantage  for  the  choice 
of  the  coy  hen-birds.  For  their  admiration  the 
great  peacock  spreads  his  gorgeous  tail,  birds 
of  paradise  wave  their  silken  plumes  in  the 
green  half-light  of  leafy  halls,  and  the  hum- 
mingbird flashes  his  gems  among  the  flowers ; 
and  it  is  to  woo  their  bird  hearts  and  hands 
<*  112  &+> 


Animals  that  Advertise 

r 

that  the  songsters  chant  their  sweetest  melodies, 
or  chirrup  and  whistle  as  best  they  may. 

Now,  it  is  not  straining  words  to  speak  of 
all  these  intentional  displays  of  ability  and 
beauty  as  advertisements  of  the  desire  to  marry 
and  the  attractions  each  has  to  offer.  And 
naturalists  say  that  the  females  deliberately 
choose  among  the  competitors,  taking  the  best 
one  according  to  the  standard  of  each  species. 
Thus  the  most  brightly  plumaged  males,  the 
best  singers,  are  given  the  greatest  number  of 
chances  to  mate  and  perpetuate  their  race,  and 
to  transmit  their  excellence  to  their  offspring. 

The  result  of  this  tendency  to  breed  from  the 
strongest  and  best  has  been  a  steady  increase 
of  such  qualities  and  a  steady  growth  in  these 
directions.  Thus,  say  those  to  whom  the  theory 
of  sexual  selection  is  sufficient  to  explain  all 
these  things,  have  gradually  come  about  all  the 
gay  colors  and  all  the  brilliant  songs  of  our 
birds. 


Animals  that  Wear  Disguises 

r 

ONE  of  our  commonest  birds  is  the  whip- 
poor-will,  yet,  though  constantly  heard, 
he  is  rarely  seen.     This  is  because  he 
goes  abroad  only  in  the  hours  of  darkness. 

He  does  not  seek  security  there  by  hiding, 
but  squats  boldly  upon  a  log.  His  plumage  is 
mottled  gray  and  brown,  like  old  bark,  yet  this 
would  not  suffice  to  conceal  him  if  he  sat  cross- 
wise, as  birds  generally  do,  so  he  sits  lengthwise, 
and  at  once  falls  into  the  appearance  of  a  stub 
of  a  broken  branch.  He  disguises  himself  as 
a  "  bump  on  a  log." 

But  some  of  his  relatives  in  other  parts  of 
the  world  do  even  better.  Down  in  the  Antilles 
there  is  a  goatsucker — as  all  of  this  family  have 
long  been  called,  though  none  really  rob  the 
goats  of  their  milk,  and  hence  nightjar  is  a  bet- 
ter family  name — which  is  abroad  during  the 
^  114  £» 


Animals  that  Wear  Disguises 

r 

day,  flitting  from  stump  to  stump,  for  it 
chooses  only  to  alight  upon  dead  stubs.  The 
instant  it  thinks  itself  observed  it  straightens 
up,  stiffens  every  muscle,  and  becomes  to  the  eye 
merely  a  spike  or  splinter  of  its  perch. 

A  large  Australian  relative,  the  "  more-pork," 
does  this  trick  so  well  and  quickly  that  you  may 
almost  touch  the  bird  with  your  cane  in  point- 
ing it  out  to  a  friend,  yet  the  chances  are  that 
he  will  be  unable  to  see  it — in  fact,  more  than 
one  person  has  placed  his  hand  upon  a  more- 
pork  perched  upon  some  fence,  without  sus- 
pecting that  it  was  anything  more  than  a  knot, 
until  he  touched  it. 

Both  these  birds  maintain  their  rigid  dis- 
guises as  long  as  any  reason  for  alarm  remains, 
and  few  lose  their  lives  from  hawks. 

An  African  member  of  the  family  is  very  con- 
spicuous when  it  flies  about  in  the  dusk  by  rea- 
son of  a  long,  bright  feather  streaming  out 
from  its  wings,  and  it  would  be  in  constant 
peril  of  discovery  and  destruction  when  at  rest 
during  the  day  did  it  not  hide  these  telltale 
plumes.  So  it  rests  in  the  grass  and  lifts  its 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

two  long  wing  feathers  straight  up,  where  they 
nod  and  quiver  among  the  heads  of  the  grasses. 

A  fish  whose  name  is  out  of  my  memory  at 
this  moment  (but  that  doesn't  matter),  has  its 
fins  and  tail  prolonged  into  queer  ragged 
fringes  which  would  give  it  a  most  shredded, 
disreputable  appearance  when  out  of  water  or 
swimming  in  a  clear  place;  but  it  never  does 
swim  naturally  in  a  clear  place,  but  dwells  in 
the  midst  of  floating  seaweed,  and  so  disguises 
itself  as  a  part  of  the  wavering  vegetation  about 
it  that  its  enemies  must  search  very  carefully  to 
find  it. 

It  is  with  the  same  prudence  that  the  slender 
and  defenseless  pipefish  pretends  to  be  a  tall 
sea-plant,  standing  almost  continuously  on  his 
head  among  the  eel  grass,  where  he  becomes 
simply  another  blade  in  the  little  forest  of  the 
seashore. 

The  bittern  does  the  same  thing  when,  fearing 
discovery,  he  stands  with  outstretched  neck  and 
bill  pointing  straight  toward  the  sky,  as  motion- 
less as  a  statue  as  long  as  you  keep  quiet.  He 
has  taken  advantage  of  his  stripes  imitating  the 


Animals  that  Wear  Disguises 

r 

upright  rushes  and  their  shadows,  and  so  has 
disguised  himself  as  a  bit  of  marsh,  and  if  you 
walk  slowly  around  him  he  will  turn  as  if  on  a 
pivot  and  so  make  no  alteration  either  in  his 
attitude  or  aspect.  In  consequence  many  a 
silent  bittern  is  never  seen  at  all. 

In  a  somewhat  similar  way  to  the  seaweed- 
haunting  fishes  mentioned  above,  the  South 
American  river  turtle  called  matamata  has  ac- 
quired a  disguise  which  enables  it  not  only  to 
escape  its  enemy  the  alligator,  but  to  secure  its 
own  prey  of  fish  and  little  reptiles.  Its  shell 
is  dark-colored  and  rough,  so  that  it  is  imper- 
ceptible among  the  aquatic  vegetation  amid 
which  the  animal  lurks,  and  all  over  its  brown- 
black  head  and  long  neck,  outstretched  and 
ready  to  seize  its  victims,  grow  a  multitude  of 
strings  and  knobs  of  dark  skin  which  so  pre- 
cisely imitate  a  plant  stem  that  often  a  fish 
will  swim  unsuspectingly  right  into  its  jaws. 

The  great  cayman  himself  may  be  said  to 
assume  the  appearance  of  a  knobbed  and  slimy 
drift  log  as  he  lies  on  the  mud  of  the  river  mar- 
gin or  floats  motionless  at  the  surface  of  the 

«•$  117  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

water,  and  not  only  has  many  an  animal  walked 
or  swam  within  his  reach  without  a  thought  of 
his  presence,  but  man  himself  is  frequently  de- 
ceived. 

Very  different  in  circumstances,  but  the  same 
in  intent,  is  the  disguise  of  the  sloth  as  a  bunch 
of  "  old  man's  beard  "  moss,  for  as  he  hangs 
after  his  manner  from  the  underside  of  a  limb 
in  a  Brazilian  forest,  his  coarse  gray  hair  so 
perfectly  resembles  the  mossy  draping  of  the 
trees  that  no  casual  eye  would  suspect  that  a 
living  animal  was  there  in  place  of  it. 

It  is  among  insects,  crabs,  etc.,  that  the  most 
perfect  disguises  are  found,  as  also  are  the 
most  perfect  cases  of  "  mimicry,"  by  which  term 
we  may  distinguish  those  resemblances  which 
imitate  some  other  creature  for  which  it  is  to 
an  animal's  advantage  to  be  mistaken. 

Occasionally  in  late  summer,  when  my  eyes 
are  fixed,  perhaps  in  idle  gaze,  upon  a  bush, 
I  am  startled  to  see  a  twig  suddenly  walk  off, 
and  thus  I  find  I  have  been  looking  at  a  walking- 
stick  insect  without  seeing  it.  This  is  a  relative 
of  the  grasshopper  which  is  drawn  out  until 

+$  118  &» 


L   W.  Brownell,  Phot. 

A  Twig-like  Walking-stick  Insect 


Animals  that  Wear  Disguises 

$ 

its  body,  gray  or  light  brown  in  color,  looks 
much  like  a  stick  from  two  to  six  inches  long, 
and  its  legs  are  prolonged  into  wiry  appendages 
equally  dry  and  twig-like.  In  the  tropics  the 
walking-sticks  are  large,  varied  and  numerous, 
and  Alfred  Russel  Wallace  tells  of  one  which  he 
found  in  the  East  Indies  whose  body  was  covered 
by  little  greenish  excrescences  that  perfectly 
resembled  a  kind  of  wood  moss  common  on  the 
trees  there,  so  much  so  that  even  the  sharp-eyed 
Dyaks  were  completely  deceived.  These  dry 
stick-like  insects  walk  slowly  about  the  twigs  of 
trees,  feeding  upon  the  juices  of  the  bark,  and 
have  no  means  of  defense  against  nor  escape 
from  birds,  monkeys  and  other  insect-eaters, 
except  to  trust  to  their  invisibility. 

The  same  need  of  protection  against  the  dan- 
ger of  being  eaten  causes  many  moths  and  but- 
terflies to  assume  the  disguises  of  a  dead  leaf 
whenever  they  rest.  Every  one  knows  that  as 
a  rule  moths  are  dully  colored  on  the  upper  side 
of  their  wings,  which  lie  out  flat  when  the  moth 
is  at  rest,  whereas  in  butterflies  the  brilliant 
tints  are  upon  the  upper  side  while  the  under- 
<•*?  119  $*> 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

side  is  plainly  colored — a  fact  which  goes  with 
the  ordinary  habit  of  butterflies  of  sitting  with 
their  wings  closed  and  held  upright  over  their 
backs,  so  that  the  gay  colors  are  hidden  and 
only  the  plain  undersides  are  exposed. 

In  some  butterflies  of  the  tropics  this  disguise 
is  the  most  perfect  probably  of  all  in  the  animal 
kingdom.  The  kallima,  a  common  butterfly  of 
India  and  Sumatra,  simply  disappears  when  it 
settles  on  a  bush,  for  it  hides  its  head  and  an- 
tennae between  its  closed  wings,  which  in  form, 
color  and  veining  cannot  be  distinguished  from 
a  withered  leaf.  The  likeness  is  complete,  even 
to  the  discolored  spots,  broken  places  and  bent 
footstalks.  One  may  safely  defy  the  keenest 
eye  to  find  the  living  insect  among  the  leaves, 
and  you  may  go  as  close  as  you  please  to  exam- 
ine it,  for  the  butterfly  understands  perfectly 
well  that  its  disguise  is  impenetrable  as  long  as 
it  holds  still.  Scarcely  less  puzzling  cloaks  of 
invisibility  are  worn  by  many  other  butterflies 
and  by  various  sorts  of  more  or  less  seden- 
tary insects. 

Sometimes,  however,  mimicry  is  assumed  not 

«•$  120  5o» 


Animals  that  Wear  Disguises 

r 

for  protection  against  foes,  but  to  assist  the 
creature  in  getting  its  living.  Belt  tells  of 
his  surprise  in  Nicaragua  at  finding  what  he 
supposed  the  dropping  of  some  large  bird  on 
the  leaves  of  a  bush  to  be  really  a  voracious 
spider  lying  in  wait  for  victims.  When  it  drew 
in  its  legs  and  squatted  in  this  disguise  no  bug 
would  ever  suspect  any  harm,  and  at  the  same 
time  the  spider  itself  was  safeguarded,  because 
there  was  no  likelihood  that  any  of  its  enemies 
(mostly  birds)  would  pay  it  any  attention,  ex- 
cept to  avoid  it. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  and 
most  effectual  disguises  that  have  been  discov- 
ered; but  the  more  naturalists  investigate  the 
ways  and  means  of  the  lower  orders  of  life,  the 
more  they  find  nature  utilizing  these  protective 
resemblances. 


121 


Birds  and  Beasts  that  Bluff 

r 

THE  verb  "  to  bluff "  long  ago  passed 
from  the  slang  of  the  card-table  into 
truly  respectable  if  not  elegant  speech. 
It  expresses  more  precisely  and  forcibly  than 
anything  else  the  idea  of  dissembling  uncon- 
f  essed  weakness  by  a  bold  and  defiant  attitude — 
the  legitimate,  justifiable  attempt  at  deception 
in  self-defense  which  is  a  part  of  the  armament 
of  every  creature.  For,  after  all,  bluffing  is 
nothing  else  than  an  attempt  to  make  your  an- 
tagonist believe  you  bigger  or  stronger  than 
you  are,  or,  perhaps,  than  he  is ;  and  thus  it 
becomes  the  natural  tactics  of  the  weak  against 
the  powerful. 

The  gambler  who  holds  a  strong  hand  has  no 
need  of  this  resource;  it  is  the  resort  of  the 
player  who,  lacking  munitions  for  his  war,  must 
set  up  a  pretense  of  strength  that  shall  frighten 
«•$  122  £» 


Birds  and  Beasts  that  Bluff 

I 

his  adversary.  This  is  nothing  new.  Most  men 
and  all  women  are  bluffers,  and  every  animal  is 
an  adept  at  the  art  within  its  own  range  of  ex- 
perience, while  the  less  actual  ability  it  has  to 
use  them,  the  more  inclined  it  is  to  put  up  its 
fists. 

Take,  for  instance,  the  caterpillar  of  a  sphinx 
moth — a  slow,  fat,  green  worm,  crawling  slug- 
gishly about  the  bushes  in  plain  view  of  every 
insect-eater.  It  has  no  armor,  or  spines,  or 
poison,  or  ability  to  defend  itself  whatever, 
but  the  instant  anything  approaches  it  it  rears 
up  and  wags  its  horned  head  and  looks  so  for- 
midable that  almost  nothing  has  the  nerve  to 
tackle  it.  This  is  purely  a  bluff. 

Consider  the  case  of  that  harmless  braggart, 
the  hog-nose  snake.  He  can  really  hurt  nothing 
bigger  than  a  mouse  or  a  fledgling  sparrow,  and 
he  lives  mainly  on  ground  beetles  and  worms, 
yet  he  has  to  be  on  his  guard  against  hawks, 
owls,  skunks,  blacksnakes  and  various  other  ser- 
pent-eaters, in  respect  to  all  of  which  he  is  full 
of  cowardly  fear.  But  he  is  so  slow  that  he 
cannot  run;  he  can  wield  no  poisoned  stilettos, 

<•$  123  £•» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

as  do  the  rattlesnake  and  copperhead;  and 
hence  must  rely  entirely  upon  inspiring  terror. 

So  he  swells  out  his  head  and  neck  to  twice 
their  size  by  expanding  his  ribs,  opens  a  great 
triangular  mouth,  blows  and  hisses,  and  makes 
believe  he  is  the  ugliest  sort  of  viper — and  as  a 
rule  succeeds  well  enough  to  be  left  alone.  If 
you  "  call "  his  bluff  he  will  fall  limp  and  liter- 
ally go  into  convulsions  of  terror,  or  turn  over 
on  his  back  in  a  dead  faint  of  fear  before  you 
have  really  injured  him  at  all. 

The  dreadful  East  Indian  viper  which  the 
Portuguese  pioneers  in  India  named  cobra  de 
capello — the  hooded  snake — has  the  same  idea 
when  he  lifts  a  third  of  his  length  and  presents 
his  immensely  distended  head  and  neck  in  the 
face  of  a  leopard  or  other  threatening  foe.  He 
has  good  weapons,  but  few  animals  fight  unless 
compelled  to  do  so,  and  he  tries  to  avoid  it  by 
a  bluff. 

In  fact  almost  all  animals,  when  they  find  that 

shrinking  out  of  sight  fails  to  cause  them  to  be 

overlooked,  immediately  try  to  make  themselves 

as  big  as   they  can  to  produce   fright.      We 

<    124  &* 


•  * 

I 


fr 


o 


Birds  and  Beasts  that  Bluff 

r 

borrow  the  simile  from  them  when  we  say  of  a 
truculent  fellow  that  he  "bristles  up."  That 
is  the  notion  of  a  wolf  or  dog  when  he  lifts  his 
hackles  and  rises  on  tip-toe  to  meet  his  chal- 
lenger ;  and  of  puss  when  she  sets  every  hair  on 
end,  arches  her  spine  and  swells  her  tail  to 
thrice  its  peaceful  girth. 

When  the  fight  actually  comes  on  they  forget 
all  these  blustering  preparations,  which  were 
merely  terrifying  tactics,  like  the  bellowing  and 
pawing  of  a  bull,  the  war-paint  and  rattles  of 
the  Indian,  or  the  yelling  and  firecrackers  of 
the  Chinese  before  a  battle. 

The  porcupine  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  blus- 
terers, for  he  not  only  turns  himself  into  a  liv- 
ing chestnut  burr,  but  rattles  his  quills  against 
one  another  like  some  mediaeval  knight  jangling 
all  his  war  harness  as  he  enters  the  joust  to  pro- 
claim how  impregnable  he  is  and  at  the  same  time 
to  hearten  himself  up  a  bit.  If  the  porcupine 
shivered  with  fright  the  same  rattling  of  the  hol- 
low quills  would  follow,  and  perhaps,  if  the  truth 
were  known,  that  is  really  what  happens.  At 
any  rate  he  doesn't  shoot  his  quills  as  the  old 
«•$  125  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

stories  alleged,  yet  he  might  almost  as  well  do 
so,  for  the  slightest  touch  will  cause  their  needle- 
like  barbed  points  to  adhere  to  any  soft  surface, 
and  they  are  pulled  out  and  carried  away  by 
the  enemy  as  souvenirs  of  a  fruitless  encounter 
far  more  difficult  to  get  rid  of  than  to  acquire. 

Few  of  the  woodland  animals  are  unaware  of 
this,  and  consequently  nothing  but  the  foolish- 
ness of  youth,  or  the  desperation  of  extreme 
hunger,  will  lead  any  beast  of  prey  to  forget 
the  warning  of  the  rattling  quills  and  leap  upon 
their  tender-fleshed  but  bristling  owner.  Some 
of  the  smaller  ones,  like  the  fisher  marten,  do, 
however,  get  him  by  strategy, — creeping  be- 
neath the  snow  in  winter  and  seizing  his  unpro- 
tected throat  or  belly  in  a  fatal  nip.  Against 
such  an  attack,  by  what  soldiers  would  call 
"  sapping  and  mining,"  the  poor  porcupine  can 
make  little  defense. 

A  good  many  bugs  and  some  caterpillars  and 
crustaceans  have  an  armament  somewhat  similar 
to  that  of  the  "  fretful  porcupine,"  but  these 
behave  more  like  the  hedgehog,  simply  rolling 
up  so  that  their  points  stand  out  in  every  direc- 

«*£  126  &* 


Birds  and  Beasts  that  Bluff 

r 

tion  and  defy  the  enemy  to  find  an  exposed  point 
for  attack. 

There  is  one  sort  of  fish,  however,  represented 
by  several  species  in  Northern  seas,  as  well  as 
many  in  the  tropics,  which  combines  a  strong 
disposition  to  bluff  with  a  very  good  "  hand." 
This  is  the  tribe  of  globe-fish  or  porcupine  fish, 
of  which  the  little  puffer  or  swell-doodle  of  our 
Atlantic  coast  is  a  good  example. 

These  fishes  when  quiet  look  much  like  others, 
except  that  they  have  a  rough,  leathery  skin 
instead  of  a  scaly  one,  and  are  everywhere  (ex- 
cept along  the  abdomen)  covered  with  bristle- 
like  appendages.  Let  one  of  them  be  alarmed 
in  any  way,  however,  and  an  almost  instan- 
taneous change  takes  place.  It  sucks  in  water 
by  rapid  gulps  until  it  swells  into  a  ball  studded 
with  stiff  spikes.  In  this  condition  it  rises  to 
the  surface  of  the  water  and  spins  and  bobs 
about,  giving  queer  audible  grunts,  and  making 
a  most  extraordinary  and  to  our  eyes  comical 
appearance. 

This  is  enough  to  make  'most  any  thought- 
ful fish  repent  the  error  of  its  intention,  and 

+$  127  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

leave  the  uncanny  thing  alone,  but  if,  misguid- 
edly,  it  still  tries  to  seize  it,  it  finds  the  grunting, 
prickly  little  globe  something  it  is  indisposed 
to  swallow  and  hastily  spits  it  out.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  the  spines  of  the  globe-fish  are  neither 
hard  or  venomous  and  would  do  no  harm,  but 
the  little  fellow  succeeds  in  life  as  well  as  if  he 
wore  a  real  armor,  because  he  makes  his  foes 
think  him  a  real  terror. 

The  processes  of  natural  selection  have 
worked  steadily  among  birds,  fishes  and  beasts 
toward  making  this  faculty  of  bluffing  more 
and  more  successful  as  a  means  of  self-pro- 
tection, and  have  supplied  many  means  to  that 
end. 

An  owl  and  various  other  birds  throw  their 
wings  out  or  forward  and  use  them  well  in  a 
struggle,  but  one — the  magnificent  argus  pheas- 
ant— spreads  them  in  front  of  him,  which  not 
only  magnifies  his  warlike  appearance,  but 
serves  as  a  shield  in  the  combat  that  may  not 
always  be  avoided.  The  wings,  in  fact,  so  well 
form  a  round  screen  in  front  of  the  bird  that 
it  can  withdraw  its  head  altogether  behind  it, 


"O 

S 

o 


r 


Birds  and  Beasts  that  Bluff 

* 

and  then  strike  through  it  at  its  antagonist  in 
some  altogether  unexpected  place. 

Tactics  of  this  kind  are  said  to  be  a  part  of 
the  secret  of  the  extraordinary  success  the 
ground  hornbill  of  South  Africa  has  in  killing 
the  dreadful  puffing-adder  and  other  deadly 
snakes  of  that  region  which  it  likes  to  eat.  On 
discovering  a  snake  three  or  four  of  the  birds 
advance  sideways  toward  it  with  wings  stretched 
out  and  with  their  quills  flap  at  and  irritate 
the  snake  till  it  strikes  their  wing-feathers,  when 
they  immediately  close  in  on  all  sides,  and  vio- 
lently peck  it  with  their  long,  sharp  bills, 
quickly  withdrawing  again  when  the  snake  lets 
go.  This  they  repeat  until  the  snake  is  dead. 
If  the  reptile  advances  the  bird  places  both 
wings  in  front  of  it,  completely  covering  its 
head  and  most  vulnerable  parts,  just  as  does 
the  argus  pheasant. 

All  the  lizards,  having  little  ability  for  real 
harm  in  them,  are  great  braggarts,  and  seem 
to  know  well  how  to  profit  by  their  spiny- 
crested,  diabolically  ugly  features. 

There  is  one  sort,  however,  which  has  special 
*$  129  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  WUd 

r 

means  for  "  putting  up  a  bluff "  in  its  vast 
Elizabethan  collar  or  "  frill."  This  consists  of 
a  great  outgrowth  of  flesh  from  behind  the  ears 
all  the  way  round  under  the  throat.  It  is  as 
though  the  head  of  the  animal  were  pushed 
through  an  umbrella,  which  lies  folded  back 
upon  its  fore  shoulders  in  ordinary  moments. 

This  lizard  is  an  inhabitant  of  Australia  and 
sometimes  reaches  three  feet  in  length.  It  seeks 
its  food  both  in  trees  and  on  the  ground,  where 
it  runs  swiftly,  and  is  often  seen  about  gardens. 
When  not  disturbed  it  moves  quietly  about, 
but  it  is  highly  irascible  and  the  instant  it  is 
provoked  opens  its  frills  and  makes  for  a  tree, 
where,  if  overtaken,  it  throws  itself  on  its 
haunches,  raises  its  front  as  high  as  possible 
and  sinks  its  head  between  its  shoulders  in  the 
center  of  an  inverted  umbrella  studded  with 
spines  and  prickles. 

It  would  certainly  be  difficult  to  invent  a 
picture  of  armament,  rage  and  disgusting  quali- 
ties all  together,  to  exceed  this  bit  of  acting, 
and  it  is  sufficient,  many  a  time,  to  warn  off  the 
attacker  who  had  not  thought  a  peaceful-look- 


Birds  and  Beasts  that  Bluff 

r 

ing  lizard  would  make  a  lightning  change  into 
something  satanic. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  animals  are  probably  able 
to  bluff  more  effectively  than  men,  because  they 
are  in  such  deadly  earnest  about  it  and  do  it 
so  often. 


131  • 


A  Good  Habit  Gone  Wrong 
f 

TAKE  him  by  and  large  probably  none 
of  our  American  animals  is  more  inter- 
esting to  a  thoughtful  person  than  the 
gray,  grunting,  snarling,  pilfering,  dunder- 
headed  and  motherly  creature  which  the  south- 
ern Indians  told  us  was  an  opossum.  John 
Smith  reported  among  the  wonders  of  Vir- 
ginia :  "  The  opassam  hath  a  head  like  a  Swine, 
a  tayle  like  a  Bat,  as  bigge  as  a  Cat,  and  hath 
under  her  belly  a  Bag  wherein  she  carrieth  her 
Young."  No  need  for  mistake  in  identifying 
this  creature,  though  in  respect  to  some  of  the 
other  "  marvels  "  of  those  early  reporters  nat- 
uralists are  guessing  yet. 

It  was  the  distinction  of  our  opossum  to  be 
the  first  of  all  marsupials  to  be  brought  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  civilized  world,  and  some  of 
the  early  notions  as  to  the  method  of  its  novel 
reproduction  are  among  the  most  grotesque 
+§  132  £» 


A  Good  Habit  Gone  Wrong 

r 

relics  of  the  early  stages  of  zoology.  More  than 
two  hundred  years  elapsed  before  the  matter 
was  understood  aright,  so  far  as  can  be  learned ; 
and  then  it  was  the  study  of  our  little  old 
opossum,  and  not  of  the  numerous  and  diver- 
sified marsupials  of  Australia,  which  solved  the 
puzzle. 

Another,  and  perhaps  more  lasting  distinc- 
tion, is  that  of  adding  a  phrase  to  the  language, 
— "  playing  'possum."  It  needs  no  definition. 
Everybody  understands  the  nature  of  the  ruse 
signified,  yet  not  all  know  the  circumstances 
under  which  it  is  practiced;  and  so  far  as  I 
know  no  one  has  asked,  not  to  speak  of  answer- 
ing, the  question  how  the  little  beast  acquired 
the  idea,  or  habit,  or  whatever  it  is  that  causes 
him  to  "  go  dead," — why  he  plays  'possum. 

In  the  first  place  it  appears  that  the  animal 
remains  wide-awake  and  fights  as  briskly  as 
any  other  on  many  occasions,  so  that  the  use 
of  the  ruse  is  by  no  means  invariable.  A 
mother  with  half -grown  young,  for  example, 
will  sit  up  on  her  haunches  and  face  an  enemy 
with  gleaming  eyes  and  teeth,  without  a  thought 

+§  133  £» 


The  .Wit  of  the  iWild 

r 

of  taking  refuge  in  coma ;  and  in  the  season  of 
courtship  all  the  males  go  about  with  a  chip  on 
their  shoulders,  seeking  and  carrying  on  terrific 
fights,  in  which  neither  combatant  lies  down 
until  he  has  to, — and  then  his  foe  makes  sure 
that  the  death  is  real  before  he  quits.  Dr. 
Lincecum  tells  how  he  went  close  to  such  a  bat- 
tle once  and  watched  it  a  long  time,  the  furious 
rivals  being  too  busy  to  mind  him ;  then  "  kicked 
over  "  the  female,  "  who  went  into  a  spasm."  All 
predatory  animals  seem  to  bear  the  creature  en- 
mity, yet  few  or  none  devour  it.  Dogs  take  every 
opportunity  to  crack  its  bones,  and  from  them 
the  opossum  tries  to  escape,  when  he  hears  them 
in  time,  by  hastening  up  a  tree.  In  a  great 
number  of  cases  of  danger,  in  fact,  as  all  ac- 
counts agree,  the  animal  does  its  best  to  utilize 
ordinary  methods  of  escape  or  defense,  running 
or  hiding  or  fighting  in  a  perfectly  natural  way. 
In  other  cases,  just  what  or  when  it  would  be 
hard  to  define  exactly — but  apparently  in  the 
presence  of  something  so  large  as  to  make  re- 
sistance idle, — the  animal,  when  attacked  or  cor- 
nered, will  fall  limp  and  "dead";  "and  when 


o 
H 


A  Good  Habit  Gone  Wrong 

r 

the  opossum  plays  'possum,"  as  Witmer  Stone 
remarks,  "  he  invariably  draws  back  the  gums 
from  his  glittering  white  teeth  until  he  looks 
as  if  he  had  been  dead  for  a  month."  You  may 
roll  the  creature  about  with  your  foot,  explore 
the  pouch,  pick  it  up  and  carry  it  by  its  tail, 
offer  it  almost  any  indignity,  and  it  will  in  most 
cases  neither  resist  nor  complain ;  but  take  your 
eye  off  it  as  it  lies  upon  the  ground,  and  it  will 
soon  jump  up  and  scuttle  away,  or  if  you  pick 
it  up  carelessly  enough  to  give  it  a  chance  it 
may  nip  you  savagely.  Severely  injured,  as  in 
the  jaws  of  a  big  dog,  or  under  the  club  of  a 
darkey  eager  to  sop  sweet  potatoes  in  'possum 
gravy,  the  animal  protests,  but  yields  as  if  ut- 
terly discouraged. 

This  behavior  does  not  bear  out  the  theory 
held  by  some  naturalists,  that  the  action  is  not 
a  ruse,  but  an  involuntary  paralysis  due  to  sud- 
den, hysterical  fear;  to  one  who  knows  the 
creature  nervousness  and  hysterics  are  the  last 
things  to  be  thought  of.  It  will  hardly  do 
then  to  believe  it  a  physiological  effect ;  and  yet 
it  is  exercised  in  so  irregular  and  often  useless 

^  135  £» 


.The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

and  dunderheaded  a  way  that  it  seems  hardly 
worthy  the  name  of  an  intellectual  performance, 
like  the  fox's  use,  on  occasion,  of  a  similar  de- 
vice in  stalking  or  ambushing  his  prey.  It 
looks  to  me  more  like  the  action  of  an  instinct 
which  has  lost  its  steering  gear — an  instinct 
that  has  outgrown  the  circumstances  which 
originated  it  and  in  which  it  was  advantageous. 
Of  what  service  now  is  the  time-honored  ruse? 
How  many  of  the  opossum's  enemies  are  now 
sufficiently  deceived  by  his  little  game  to  go 
away  and  leave  him?  Would  a  cat  or  a  dog,  a 
wolf  or  a  big  owl,  neglect  to  seize  and  eat  him 
(if  they  cared  to — dogs  won't  touch  the  flesh) 
because  of  his  pretense?  What  do  they  care 
whether  he  is  dead  or  not — if  the  former,  so 
much  the  easier  for  them.  But  their  noses  tell 
them  better.  Dr.  Lincecum  says  that  in  Texas 
he  has  repeatedly  seen  turkey  buzzards  alight 
"  near  where  they  find  an  opossum  feeding  in 
the  woods  and,  running  up  on  him,  flap  their 
wings  violently  over  him  a  few  times,  when  the 
opossum  goes  into  a  spasm,  and  the  buzzards 
very  deliberately  proceed  to  pick  out  its  ex- 
*§  136  So» 


A  Good  Habit  Gone  .Wrong 

r 

posed  eye,  and  generally  take  a  pretty  good 
bite  from  its  neck  and  shoulders,  the  opossum 
lying  on  its  side  all  the  time  and  grunting." 
If  then  the  feint  (or  faint?)  does  not  deceive, 
of  what  service  is  it?  On  the  contrary,  is  it 
not  a  fatal  mistake  in  tactics,  leading  to  death 
by  tame  submission  many  an  opossum  which 
might  otherwise  save  himself  by  fight  or  flight? 
Hence  the  practice  seems  to  me  an  obsolete  sur- 
vival from  some  time  and  place  in  the  past  his- 
tory of  the  race  when  such  a  habit  was  service- 
able. Let  us  see  whether  any  exterior  evidence 
exists  to  justify  this  proposition. 

It  is  now  known — and  it  is  only  very  recently 
that  the  facts  have  become  clearly  established — 
that  the  opossums  are  traceable  farther  back 
than  any  other  family  of  mammals;  theirs  is 
the  group  lowest  in  organization,  and  most  an- 
cient in  lineage.  Long  before  the  dawn  (Eo- 
cene Period)  of  the  Tertiary  Era,  or  "  Age  of 
Mammals," — away  back  in  the  Cretaceous  di- 
vision of  the  preceding  Mesozoic  time, — the 
opossum  race  was  well  defined  and  established. 
-Still  more  remarkable  is  the  fact  that  from  that 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

time  to  this  the  variation  it  has  undergone  hag 
been  extremely  small, — so  small  that  the  teeth 
found  fossil  in  the  Laramie  formations  of 
Wyoming  are  hardly  distinguishable  from 
those  of  the  "  'possum-up-a-gum-tree  "  to-day. 
Now  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  world 
of  that  era  was  peopled  almost  wholly,  so  far 
as  interested  opossums  of  the  time,  with  preda- 
cious reptiles,  brutes  often  of  enormous  size  and 
strength  but  of  low  and  sluggish  nervous  or- 
ganization. The  relatively  minute  size  and 
smooth  interior  of  their  brain-boxes  show  that 
their  brains  were  of  little  value  as  instruments 
of  intelligence,  and  all  their  senses  were  doubt- 
less far  inferior  to  those  even  of  the  dull-witted, 
sluggish  crocodilians,  lizards  and  turtles  of  the 
present.  Small  objects  would  not  attract  their 
attention  unless  they  moved,  and  a  little  animal 
remaining  absolutely  motionless  would  in  most 
cases  be  overlooked,  or  if  seen  would  not  be 
attacked.  Put  a  tree-toad  in  a  cage  with  a 
bull-frog  to-day  and  the  little  one  will  be  safe 
from  his  ravenous  neighbor,  no  matter  how  near 
he  sits,  until  he  makes  a  move.  Should  the  crea- 


A  Good  Habit  Gone  Wrong 

r 

ture's  odor  penetrate  the  dull  nostrils  of  the  foe, 
and  an  examination  follow,  if  the  prey  had  reso- 
lution enough  to  continue  its  quiet  position, 
so  that  it  would  appear  to  be  dead,  even  with  a 
great  dinosaur  nose  poking  at  it,  it  would  prob- 
ably be  left  untouched,  for,  as  a  rule,  land  rep- 
tiles do  not  feed  upon  carrion. 

An  ability  of  this  self -preserving  kind  would 
be  almost  a  corollary  of  existence  under  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  the  Mesozoic  opossums 
found  themselves  ;  the  habit  would  be  of  a  nature 
most  likely  to  be  advanced  by  natural  selection ; 
and  in  the  course  of  the  immensely  long  time 
available  for  producing  the  effect  the  practice 
would  become  thoroughly  ingrained  into  opos- 
sum nature.  But  after  a  while  the  great  stupid 
reptiles  died  out  and  were  gradually  replaced 
by  hunters  and  foes  alert  in  perception,  quick- 
witted and  active.  An  adaptive,  plastic  sort  of 
animal  would  have  shaped  habits  and  structure 
to  the  new  circumstances  as  they  arose :  but  the 
opossum  nature  is  not  of  that  kind, — perhaps 
no  other  has  been  physically  so  inflexible;  and 
along  with  its  unchanging  body  has  gone  a 

«•$  139  §** 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

rigidity  of  mind  which  has  retained  habits  so 
long  beyond  their  usefulness  that  now  they  are 
detrimental.  So  far  is  the  practice  of  "  feign- 
ing death  "  from  being,  as  is  popularly  thought, 
a  wonderful  provision  for  safety,  that  to  its 
habit  of  "  playing  'possum  "  the  race  may  at- 
tribute, more  than  to  any  other  one  thing,  its 
present  restricted  range  in  the  world,  and  its 
steady  decadence  in  numbers. 


140 


Animals  That  Set  Traps 

r 

A  NIMALS  must  work  for  their  living  or 
/\  they  won't  get  it  any  more  than  would 
*• — *-  their  human  superiors.  Now  and  then 
one  may  find  itself  a  sort  of  millionaire — so 
favorably  situated  that  it  gets  all  its  needs 
without  any  special  exertion.  But  this  is  rare 
— at  any  rate  among  the  higher  sort  which  lead 
an  active  life. 

The  great  and  varied  army  of  roving  ani- 
mals, little  and  big,  whether  inhabiting  the 
waters  or  the  air,  or  wandering  about  the  land, 
must  "  hustle  "  night  and  day  or  they  will  get 
left  in  the  constant  race  and  struggle  for  daily 
bread.  They  vary  immensely  in  their  means 
and  abilities,  and  hence  must  pursue  vastly  dif- 
ferent methods,  constantly  devise  new  schemes, 
to  outwit  their  would-be  victims  and  keep  even 
with  their  competitors.  In  this  way  a  good 
many  have  learned  how  to  make  ambushes,  set 
<•*£  141  5» 


,The  .Wit  of,  the  5VUd 

r 

traps,  or  throw  out  lures  which  shall  bring  their 
prey  to  them,  or  at  least  enable  them  to  get 
near  enough  unobserved  to  pounce  upon  it. 

This  is  a  large  part  of  the  service  of  what 
is  called  "  protective  coloring  " — that  is,  the 
possession  (by  slow  acquirement  in  the  course 
of  many  generations)  of  colors  that  correspond 
so  closely  with  the  creature's  customary  sur- 
roundings as  to  make  it  unnoticeable  when  quiet. 

The  colors  of  the  tree-frog,  for  example, 
which  modify  themselves  by  almost  immediate 
change  to  precisely  accord  with  the  hue  of  the 
bark  upon  which  he  sits,  hide  him  not  only  from 
his  enemies,  but  make  him  look  so  much  like  a 
knot  on  the  branch,  that  the  insects  running 
about  the  trees  never  see  him  until  they  have 
run  right  against  his  nose  and  the  next  instant 
find  themselves  stuck  to  the  tongue  he  has  darted 
out  and  traveling  down  his  throat.  The  same 
is  true  of  the  garden  toad,  as  he  sits  as  quiet 
and  brown  as  a  lump  of  earth  among  the  grass 
roots  and  seizes  the  flies  and  bugs  that  blunder 
within  reach,  never  noticing  the  ogre  until  it 
is  too  late. 

«•$  142  §o 


[Animals  that  Set  Traps 

i 

Many  crabs  are  dark  green,  like  the  eel-grass 
where  they  love  to  lurk.  They  feed  upon  all 
sorts  of  small  swimming  creatures  and  do  not 
chase  them  much,  but  back  into  a  tangle  of  grass 
along  some  little  path  and  keep  perfectly  still 
in  wait  for  a  victim,  upon  which  they  leap  like 
a  Zulu  ambushed  beside  a  jungle  path. 

Almost  innumerable  are  the  examples  that 
might  be  quoted  of  these  tactics  among  animals 
of  prey  in  almost  all  the  active  classes — even 
among  the  birds.  For  instance,  herons  that 
feed  on  fish  get  them  usually  by  standing  im- 
movable in  the  water  and  waiting  until  one  comes 
unsuspectingly  near,  when  the  spear-like  beak 
is  thrust  through  it  with  a  downward  stroke 
of  amazing  rapidity.  It  used  to  be  said  that 
the  heron  had  the  power  of  making  a  mysterious 
tuft  of  feathers  on  its  breast  glow  with  phos- 
phorescent light,  attractive  to  its  prey,  while 
at  the  same  time  it  lighted  the  water  so  that 
the  bird  could  see  where  to  strike.  This  story 
has  all  the  advantage  of  a  good  illustration  for 
us,  except  truth! 

Some,  however,  are  too  impatient  to  wait  in 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 
1 

this  manner,  but  drum  up  their  prey.  Thus 
the  African  saddle-billed  stork  runs  about  in 
shallow  water  and  then  strikes  at  the  fish  that 
try  to  escape  past  it;  while  an  ibis  of  Ceylon 
stirs  up  the  bottom  with  its  foot  and  then  picks 
one  after  another  the  mudfish  that  are  aroused. 

Many  animals,  however,  improve  upon  the 
methods  described  by  setting  traps  and  using 
decoys  and  lures  of  one  sort  or  another  to  at- 
tract prey  to  them.  Familiar  to  most  students 
is  the  method  of  the  goose-fish,  or  angler,  a  big, 
repulsive,  voracious  fish  of  our  coast,  which 
dwells  at  the  bottom  in  shallow  water,  half 
smothered  in  mud  no  blacker  than  its  own  body. 
From  the  top  of  the  lips  of  this  fish  there  stands 
up  a  feeler  several  inches  in  length  which  trem- 
bles in  the  water  like  a  tasseled  whiplash.  This 
is  sure  to  attract  the  eye  of  small  fishes  cruis- 
ing about,  who  mistake  it  for  a  bug  or  some- 
thing else  fit  to  eat,  and  will  dart  at  it,  only 
to  find  themselves  seized  by  the  horrid  mouth 
that  lies  beneath. 

In  a  similar  way  the  puma  (or  panther)  gets 
itself  many  a  meal  otherwise  difficult  of  attain- 
+  144  5» 


Animals  that  Set  Traps 

r 

ment,  if  the  guachos  of  the  Argentina  pampas 
are  to  be  believed — and  they  ought  to  know. 
When  one  of  these  great  cats  seeking  for  food 
spies  a  herd  of  guanacos  on  the  plain  he  steals 
as  near  as  he  can  (always,  of  course,  up  the 
wind)  and  crouches  flat  upon  the  ground. 
Then  he  lifts  his  tail  and  begins  to  wave  the 
end  of  it  above  the  grass.  The  sharp-eyed 
guanacos  soon  catch  sight  of  it  and  draw  nearer 
and  nearer  to  investigate  this  strange  freak. 
They  gather  closer  and  circle  around  the  cat, 
coming  closer  and  closer  with  fatuous  craving 
to  understand  it,  until  the  puma  strikes  one 
down.  This  fact  may  be  true,  without  requir- 
ing us  to  believe  that  the  puma  lifts  and  waves 
its  tail  with  a  deliberate  purpose  to  attract  his 
prey;  it  may  be  done  out  of  habit,  or  nervous 
eagerness,  quite  unconsciously  in  respect  to 
the  effect. 

It  has  been  surmised  that  the  nervously 
wavering  tail  of  the  coiled  serpent  intent  upon 
prey  was  really  the  instrument  of  what  is  called 
its  fascination  for  the  bird  or  squirrel  upon 
which  its  eye  is  fixed.  If  so,  this  wavering 
«•$  145  £*> 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

* 

tail,  like  that  of  the  puma,  becomes  a  true  lure ; 
but  whether  it  is  the  gratification  of  curiosity 
or  a  gloating  over  danger  or  a  wish  to  punish 
the  reptile  that  causes  the  little  animals  to  be 
too  venturesome,  certainly  many  seem  to  hover 
about  a  serpent  until  they  are  caught. 

Every  spider's  web  is  a  snare  before  the  feet 
and  wings  of  the  unwary.  These  nets  of  glu- 
tinous thread  are  set  where  the  insects  upon 
which  spiders  subsist  are  passing,  and  they  are 
constructed  with  marvelous  skill.  The  spider 
builds  them  as  accurately  as  she  can,  and  then 
goes  about  pulling  the  tiny  cables  here  and  there 
with  precise  judgment  of  the  proper  tension  in 
order  to  make  sure  that  all  is  right.  The  net 
must  be  elastic  enough  not  to  break  under  the 
first  struggles  of  the  prisoner,  yet  must  not  be 
so  loose  that  he  can  push  through.  Some  of 
these  spider  snares  are  several  feet  in  diameter 
and  frequently  they  are  strong  enough  to  cap- 
ture small  birds  or  mice. 

Analogous  to  this  is  the  small  net  of  silken 
threads  spun  by  the  caddis-worms  of  certain 
species  common  in  all  our  swifter  streams,  which 
*  146  to* 


Animals  that  Set  Traps 

r 

are  spread  between  pebbles,  or  across  crevices 
in  rocks,  and  serve  as  true  gill-nets  to  capture 
minute  swimming  creatures  upon  which  caddis- 
worms  feed,  but  which  they  could  not  other- 
wise catch  in  sufficient  abundance. 

Another  familiar  and  pertinent  example  is 
that  of  the  pit  of  the  ant-lion, — a  true  trap. 
The  larva  of  the  tiger-beetle,  whose  widely 
opened  jaws  fill  the  mouth  of  his  burrow,  is  a 
living  trap,  made  to  snap,  precisely  like  a  fur- 
hunter's  steel-trap,  on  the  heedless  insect  that 
steps  into  it. 

The  jelly-fish  as  it  sails  gracefully  through 
the  surface  of  the  sea  is  another  living  trap 
of  the  most  deadly  kind.  There  is  floating  about 
him  in  all  directions,  and  to  a  distance  (in  the 
largest  ones)  of  several  feet,  a  perfect  tangle 
of  extremely  delicate  ribbons,  like  the  flying 
hair  of  a  Medusa  head,  which  are  as  transparent 
as  glass  and  as  deadly  as  poison  to  all  small 
swimmers.  Let  a  minnow  or  shrimp  or  some  one 
of  the  hundreds  of  sorts  of  young  creatures 
that  float  in  the  ocean  run  against  these  unseen 
threads,  and  they  will  cling  to  him,  envelop  him 

«•$  147  $•» 


,The  .Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

in  multiplied  and  ever-fastening  threads  from 
which  there  exudes  a  poison  that  paralyzes  his 
efforts.  And  so  he  is  caught  and  held,  and 
gradually  brought  up  to  the  body  of  the  jelly- 
fish to  be  devoured.  Now,  this  is  not  only  a  liv- 
ing trap,  but  includes  a  lure  as  well,  for  the 
jelly-fish  is  phosphorescent,  and  its  pulsating 
flashes  of  light  attract  the  attention  of  the  small 
creatures  who  swim  toward  their  ruin.  Un- 
doubtedly one  of  the  effects,  if  not  purposes  (a 
word  that  must  be  used  very  cautiously  in  nat- 
ural history),  of  the  phosphorescence  that  be- 
longs to  so  many  marine  animals  is  to  act  as 
an  attraction  to  animals  that  are  needed  as  food. 
It  has  not  been  known  until  recently  that 
birds  do  anything  in  the  way  of  luring  victims 
within  their  power — or  at  any  rate,  anything 
further  than  the  use  our  sapsucker  makes  of 
his  "  honey-pots."  This  bird  is  the  American 
yellow-bellied  woodpecker,  which  digs  hundreds 
of  little  pits  in  the  bark  of  sweet-sapped  trees 
such  as  the  apple,  basswood  and  maple  (produc- 
ing in  the  last-named  injuries  that  result  in 
"bird's-eye  maple"),  and  greedily  drinks  the 
<*$  148  &* 


c\  Lown, 
Sapsucker  Work  on  an  Apple  Tree 


Animals  that  Set  Traps 

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sap  which  exudes  besides  eating  a  certain  quantity 
of  the  layer  of  soft  growing  wood  beneath  the 
bark.  But  it  has  been  shown  by  experiments  with 
captives  that  when  fed  wholly  or  mainly  upon  this 
sap  the  bird  starves.  The  larger  part  of  its 
fare,  in  fact,  must  consist  of  insects,  and  some 
naturalists  believe  that  the  primary  object  of 
the  woodpecker  in  digging  his  circles  of  holes 
in  the  tree-bark  is  to  form  a  bait  for  insects. 
Certain  it  is,  that  as  soon  as  the  sap  flows  in- 
sects gather  and  buzz  in  swarms  about  the 
honeyed  exudation,  and  that  the  bird  returns 
again  and  again  during  the  day  to  his  tree,  gath- 
ering the  bugs  that  have  been  caught  in  the 
sticky  little  cups  or  in  the  drippings  on  the  bark, 
or  snapping  them  from  the  air,  as  he  is  very 
skillful  in  doing. 

In  Teneriffe  two  warblers,  familiar  in  Great 
Britain  as  the  blackcap  and  the  garden  warbler, 
are  each  accustomed  to  puncture  the  calyx  of 
certain  large  flowers,  particularly  those  of  the 
hibiscus  and.  abutilon,  causing  a  little  sweet 
liquor  to  exude  from  the  nectarous  juices  of 
the  blossom.  This  is  attractive  to  many  small 
*$  149  £•» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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insects,  and  the  birds  make  the  rounds  of  their 
punctured  flowers  and  so  obtain  food  without 
the  need  of  hunting. 

How  far  the  result  obtained  is  intentional  on 
the  part  of  these  birds  is  a  moot  point,  but  at 
any  rate  it  may  be  accepted  as  fostered  by  nat- 
ural selection  and  has  now,  perhaps,  become 
instinctive. 


Animal  Partnerships 

'ijjjjl    .    r  \ 

MANY  animals  go  into  partnerships  with 
others.  Sometimes  it  is  a  union  of  the 
strong  with  the  weak,  and  the  benefit, 
so  far  as  we  can  see,  is  wholly  one-sided,  but 
often  visible  advantage  results  to  both. 

Jackals  and  hyenas  that  dog  the  steps  of  lions 
in  order  to  crack  the  bones  left  from  the  royal 
feast  can  be  of  service  only  rarely,  as  sentinels ; 
and  what  return  can  be  made  by  the  remora? 
This  is  the  queerly  striped  "  sucking  fish,"  which 
attaches  itself  by  the  sucker  on  the  top  of  its 
head  to  a  turtle  or  shark  or  swordfish  and  is  car- 
ried about  free  for  hundreds  of  miles,  having 
nothing  to  do  but  dart  aside  here  and  there  to 
snatch  up  a  bit  of  food  and  then  resume  its 
dead-heading. 

The  partnership  between  the  shark  and  the 
pilot  fish,  however,  seems  to  be  one  of  mutual 
service,  the  little  one  accepting  the  protection 
o$  151  §o 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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of  his  wonderful  patron,  and  in  recompense  act- 
ing as  intelligence  officer  and  guide. 

Mosely  gives  a  most  interesting  account  of 
their  scouting  for  the  master ;  and  he  also  men- 
tions the  habitual  attendance,  in  the  South  Seas, 
of  a  petrel  upon  the  whale;  but  the  principal 
"  whale-bird  "  is  a  small  snipe-like  creature  of 
the  Arctic  regions  called  a  phalarope.  These 
abound  in  Greenland  waters,  and  they  assemble 
in  flocks  about  every  whale  that  basks  upon  the 
surface,  as  the  whales  often  do,  alighting  upon 
its  back  and  industriously  cleaning  it  of  the 
small  crustaceous  parasites  that  attach  them- 
selves to  the  leviathan's  skin,  often  in  hundreds 
of  thousands.  The  monster  of  the  deep  floats 
contentedly  on  the  surface  and  lets  his  little 
friends  pull  out  and  eat  the  annoying  "  lice  " 
as  though  he  really  appreciated  the  favor. 

Another  very  curious  partnership  of  the  sea 
is  that  between  certain  large  Medusae  or  sea- 
jellies  and  small  fishes.  The  jellies  consist  of 
an  umbrella-shaped  body,  which  looks  like  glass, 
and  from  the  under  side  of  which  trail  great 
bunches  of  filmy  threads  and  some  larger  cur- 
«•$  152  &o 


Animal  Partnerships 

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tains.  These  tentacles  are  endowed  with  sting- 
ing power,  by  means  of  which  the  jellies  benumb 
what  they  seek  to  catch  as  food  and  then  hoist 
it  up  to  the  "  mouth  "  in  the  under  surface  of 
their  floating  disk.  Now,  certain  little  fishes, 
which  are  exposed  to  a  multitude  of  enemies  in 
the  open  sea,  are  in  the  habit  of  taking  shelter 
right  among  the  poisonous  tentacles  of  the 
medusa,  where,  for  the  time,  they  are  safe  from 
any  outside  harm  and  where  a  good  deal  of  food 
falls  in  their  way ;  but  the  capital  they  put  into 
this  strange  partnership  is  their  lives,  for  if 
they  travel  about  long  enough  with  their  dan- 
gerous "  protector  "  they  are  certain  one  day 
to  be  wrapped  in  the  fatal  net  and  eaten.  So 
this  is  jumping  from  the  pan  into  the  fire ;  but 
it  is  an  illustration  of  the  hard  straits  that  sea 
animals  are  put  to  to  preserve  life  even  for  a 
little  while. 

Many  other  curious  instances  of  permanent 
association  among  the  humbler  denizens  of  the 
sea  might  be  mentioned,  but  their  description 
comes  under  a  different  head,  for  they  are  para- 
sites or  messmates,  rather  than  partners. 

*$  153  5» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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It  is  among  birds  that  the  most  interesting 
examples  of  partnership  are  found — sometimes 
with  other  birds  and  often  with  animals  of  an- 
other class.  That  familiar  little  company  of 
our  winter  woods — the  downy  woodpecker,  nut- 
hatch and  chickadee — is  a  mutual  aid  society, 
not  only  enjoying  each  other's  companionship, 
but  profiting  by  their  varied  ways  of  searching 
for  similar  fare,  and  especially  by  the  powerful 
pickax  of  the  woodpecker,  which  uncovers  many 
a  tidbit  his  friends  could  not  get  at  with  their 
weaker  bills.  Birds  are  friendly  creatures  as  a 
rule,  and  often  nest  in  companies,  not  only  in 
rookeries  of  their  own  kind  alone,  but  by  vari- 
ous species  carrying  on  their  domestic  life  in 
close  proximity  yet  peaceably,  and  all  rallying 
to  defend  the  whole  community  against  threat- 
ened dangers.  Sometimes  the  association  is 
closer. 

Thus  it  often  happens  that  the  huge  nests 
occupied  year  after  year  along  our  coasts  by  the 
fish-hawks  will  be  dotted  among  the  sticks  on 
the  outside  with  the  nests  of  blackbirds,  which 
raise  their  young  comfortably  beneath  the 
<*£  154  §*> 


Animal  Partnerships 

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shadow  of  the  great  hawk's  wings ;  and  the  same 
thing  has  been  noted  in  the  nests  of  the  whistling 
sea-eagle  of  Australia,  which  harbors  in  the 
niches  of  its  castle  the  home  of  a  small  finch, 
the  diminutive  tenants  getting  along  most  ami- 
cably with  their  powerful  host. 

At  the  other  extreme  is  the  curious  voluntary 
association  of  birds  with  ants  and  wasps  for 
the  sake  of  safety  for  their  homes.  Gosse  tells 
us,  in  his  "  Naturalist  in  Jamaica,"  that  in  that 
island  a  small  seed-eater  called  the  grass-quit 
often  selects  a  shrub  on  which  wasps  have  built 
and  fixes  the  entrance  to  its  domed  nest  close 
to  their  cells;  and  Prince  Maximilian  Neuwied 
states,  in  his  "  Travels  in  Brazil,"  that  he  found 
the  curious  purse-shaped  nest  of  one  of  the 
todies  constantly  placed  near  the  nests  of  wasps, 
and  that  the  natives  informed  him  that  it  did 
so  to  secure  itself  against  attacks  by  its  enemies. 
The  mocking-birds  in  Guiana  are  said  to  do  the 
same  thing  to  guard  themselves  from  thievish 
monkeys. 

Alluding  to  this,  that  excellent  observer, 
Thomas  Belt,  remarks  that  one  would  think  it 


The  Wit  of,  the  .Wild 

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likely  that  the  birds  when  building  their  nests 
would  be  very  likely  to  be  attacked  by  the  wasps, 
and  that  this  does  not  happen  is  good  evidence 
of  an  acknowledged  "  partnership."  However, 
it  is  to  be  noticed  that  nests  in  such  a  situation 
are  usually  domed — that  is,  have  a  cap  or  cover, 
as  if  the  birds  thought  the  wasps  neighbors  of 
very  uncertain  temper. 

Belt  himself  instances  the  similar  case  of  a 
Nicaraguan  fly-catcher.  "  On  the  Savannahs, 
between  Acoyapo  and  Naucital,"  he  says,  "  there 
is  a  shrub  with  sharp  curved  prickles,  called 
viena  paraca  (come  here)  by  the  Spaniards, 
because  it  is  difficult  to  extricate  one's  self  from 
its  hold  when  the  dress  is  caught ;  as  one  part  is 
cleared  another  will  be  entangled.  A  yellow  and 
brown  fly-catcher  builds  its  nest  in  these  bushes, 
and  generally  places  it  alongside  that  of  a 
banded  wasp,  so  that  with  the  prickles  and  the 
wasps  it  is  well  guarded. 

"  I  witnessed,  however,  the  death  of  one  of  the 

birds  from  the  very  means  it  had  chosen  for  the 

protection  of  its  young.    Darting  hurriedly  out 

of  its  domed  nest  as  we  were  passing,  it  was 

«•$  156  So* 


Animal  Partnerships 

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caught  just  under  its  bill  by  one  of  the  curved, 
hook-like  thorns,  and  in  trying  to  extricate  it- 
self got  further  entangled.  Its  fluttering  dis- 
turbed the  wasps,  who  flew  down  upon  it  and  in 
less  than  a  minute  stung  it  to  death." 

Other  tropical  birds  seek  the  society  of  sting- 
ing ants  for  the  same  reason.  Thus  in  Nica- 
ragua many  birds  hang  their  nests  from  the 
extremities  of  the  branches  of  the  bull's-horn 
thorn ;  and  a  safer  place  could  hardly  be  chosen, 
as  with  the  sharp  thorns  and  the  stinging  ants 
that  inhabit  them  no  mammal  would  dare  to 
attempt  the  ascent  of  the  tree. 

Stinging  ants  are  not  the  only  insects  whose 
protection  birds  secure  by  building  near  their 
nests,  for  a  small  Central  American  parrot 
breeds  constantly  on  the  plains  in  a  hole  made 
in  the  subterranean  nests  of  the  termites,  or 
destructive  "  white  ants,"  whose  forays  are  so 
much  dreaded.  And  a  woodpecker  of  the  East- 
ern Himalayas  actually  takes  up  its  quarters 
inside  of  the  habitation  of  an  ant. 

There  is  a  kind  of  ant  there  which  constructs 
a  globular  nest  of  a  soft  felt-like  material,  a 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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foot  or  more  in  diameter,  suspended  upon  a 
branch  and  involving  many  twigs  and  leaves. 
Into  this  gray-brown  mass  the  woodpecker  bores 
a  hole  and  then  scoops  out  a  chamber  large 
enough  for  its  nesting  purposes,  while  the  ants 
continue  to  occupy  the  remainder  of  the  globe. 

The  most  perfect  and  mutually  beneficial 
partnerships  in  animal  life,  however,  are  those 
formed  between  birds  and  certain  large  grazing 
mammals,  for  each  member  is  of  service  to  the 
other.  We  have  a  daily  example  before  us  in 
our  own  country  in  the  way  that  the  cow-black- 
birds go  afield  with  the  cattle  and  stay  close  to 
them  as  they  feed.  The  profit  to  the  birds  is 
in  snapping  up  the  insects  the  cows  flush  from 
the  grass  as  they  move  about,  and  the  cattle 
like  the  little  friends  who  perch  so  confidingly 
upon  their  backs,  for  they  not  only  catch  or 
dislodge  troublesome  flies,  but  pull  out  of  the 
skin  any  parasites  which  may  have  lodged  there. 

[All  countries  have  something  like  this  to  show. 
In  Spain  jackdaws  follow  the  herds  of  pigs, 
and  in  Central  America  a  certain  plover  is  pro- 
tected by  the  people  because  so  serviceable  to 
*$  158  &* 


Animal  Partnerships 

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the  cattle ;  while  a  certain  plover  of  Egypt  has 
been  considered  the  friend  and  ally  of  the  croco- 
dile ever  since  Pliny's  time. 

It  is  in  Africa,  indeed,  that  the  most  promi- 
nent examples  of  this  kind  of  partnership  are 
seen.  To  none  is  the  arrangement  more  im- 
portant than  to  the  rhinoceros,  an  animal  stupid, 
short-sighted,  and  easily  approached  from  any 
direction  that  does  not  carry  a  warning  scent 
to  its  sensitive  nostrils.  But  he  feeds  and  sleeps 
in  peace  under  the  watchful  care  of  a  flock  of 
starlings,  who  flutter  about  him  or  run  up  and 
down  his  rough  back  picking  off  the  various 
ticks  and  grubs  that  would  keep  him  itching  or 
perhaps  work  real  harm,  and  which  to  them  are 
excellent  morsels.  Moreover,  they  are  super- 
naturally  keen  as  watchmen,  as  hunters  well 
know,  for  many  a  fine  rhino  has  got  away  be- 
cause the  rhinoceros-birds  made  haste  to  wake 
their  patron,  by  pecking  at  his  head  and  scream- 
ing in  his  dull  ears  until  he  took  warning. 

This  same  starling,  or  one  like  it,  may  also 
be  seen  sitting  in  rows  on  the  heads  and  horns 
of  buffaloes  when  feeding  or  ruminating,  and 
*>$  159  $+> 


,The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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they  warn  these  animals  in  the  same  way.  The 
buffaloes  of  Central  Africa  are  also  guarded  and 
attended  in  a  similar  manner  by  a  beautiful  lit- 
tle white  egret,  whose  snowy  plumage  and  statu- 
esque pose  look  very  quaint  perched  upon  some 
shaggy  old  bull  of  the  forest.  Zebras  are  looked 
after  by  a  helmet-shrike,  and  "  the  tiny  three- 
collared  plover,"  according  to  Bryden,  "  is 
called  the  *  sea-cow  bird '  from  its  fondness  for 
the  hippopotamus,  or  sea-cow,  with  which  it  is 
often  found  associating."  Hunters  are  well 
aware  of  these  facts,  for  they  have  lost  many 
an  expected  trophy  or  sorely  needed  dinner  on 
account  of  them,  and  you  cannot  persuade  them 
that  the  association  is  anything  less  than  a  real 
and  intelligent  partnership. 

The  most  extraordinary  of  these  mutually 
protective  arrangements,  however,  is  that  be- 
tween Cook's  petrel  and  the  tuatara  lizard  of 
New  Zealand.  This  petrel,  or  "  titi,"  breeds  on 
rocky  islets  on  the  New  Zealand  coast  and  de- 
posits a  single  egg  at  the  interior  end  of  a  tor- 
tuous burrow  several  feet  long,  dug  by  the  birds 
themselves. 


Animal  Partnerships 

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"  On  some  of  the  islands,"  says  Buller,  "  there 
exists  a  very  remarkable  lizard — the  tuatara  of 
the  Maoris.  Wherever  the  tuatara  and  burrow- 
ing petrel  coexist  there  appears  to  be  a  perfect 
understanding  between  them,  and  they  share 
the  same  habitation.  When,  as  often  happens, 
the  terminal  chamber  of  the  burrow  has  two 
chambers,  one  is  occupied  by  the  bird  and  the 
other  by  the  reptile — usually  cheek  by  jowl." 

The  curious  part  of  the  story  follows.  Or- 
dinarily the  lizard  is  timid  and  does  its  best 
to  escape ;  but  here,  whenever  any  one  attempts 
to  meddle  with  the  bird  on  its  nest  the  lizard 
immediately  comes  to  the  rescue,  attacking 
the  hands  with  exceeding  ferocity  and  biting 
fiercely.  So  real  and  constant  is  this  defense 
that  collectors  of  the  petrel's  eggs  are  obliged 
to  dispose  of  their  faithful  guardian  before  they 
can  get  at  the  nest.  What  reward  the  tuatara 
exacts  or  receives  for  this  friendly  service,  be- 
yond the  shelter  it  enjoys,  is  not  known. 


161 


The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  Will 

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W 


'HEN  the  sun  has  disappeared  so  long 
that  only  ruddy  lines  athwart  the 
west  remain  to  show  where  it  has  set, 
and  a  darkness  as  of  velvet  pours  slowly  into 
the  hollows  of  the  landscape,  then  suddenly  there 
springs  from  the  warm  gloom  of  the  hillside 
the  cry  of  the  whip-poor-will,  loud,  vivid  and 
challenging.  At  first  you  may  hear  only  a  sin- 
gle uncertain  call,  repeated  now  here,  now  there ; 
but  soon  the  bird  settles  upon  a  place  that  suits 
him  and  begins  his  song  in  earnest,  chanting 
steadily  while  the  darkness  deepens. 

This  eerie  cry  is  a  characteristic  note  of  sum- 
mer throughout  the  eastern  United  States. 
Wintering  silent  and  secluded  in  the  warm  re- 
gions bordering  upon  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  the 
shy  bird  gladly  turns  homeward  from  its  exile 
as  spring  returns,  and  steals  north,  always  by 
short  night-journeys,  as  fast  as  insect-life 
^  162  £*» 


.The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  Will 

r 

awakes  and  furnishes  him  subsistence.  There 
is  a  tradition  in  Virginia  that  it  arrives  there 
whenever  "  corn  is  up  " ;  but  it  is  not  usually 
heard  in  New  York  before  May-day.  Even  then 
only  the  wilder  places  may  listen,  for  the  whip- 
poor-will  avoids  the  town  and  lends  his  society 
to  farmer  and  woodsman  alone.  He  hunts  along 
lanes  and  country  roads,  where  he  is  so  fond 
of  rolling  about  in  the  dust  that  the  Mexicans 
call  birds  of  this  sort  "  road-blockers  " ;  and 
after  the  farmer  and  his  "  hands  "  have  gone 
indoors  for  the  night,  searches  the  orchard  and 
dooryard,  and  summons  his  rivals  to  vocal  con- 
tests there,  but  he  has  no  mind  for  displaying 
himself  by  daylight. 

None  of  our  birds,  perKaps,  is  so  truly  and  ex- 
clusively nocturnal  as  this  one.  Owls,  bitterns 
and  even  night-hawks,  are  often  seen  abroad  in 
daylight,  but  never  the  whip-poor-will,  nor  its 
big  Southern  cousin,  the  chuck-wilPs-widow, 
even  in  the  cloudiest  weather.  To  find  them,  in 
the  daytime,  you  must  go  into  dense  woods  or 
some  swampy  thicket,  where  their  days  are 
passed  watchful  of  a  nest  or  soundly  sleeping 
*$  163  5+ 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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until  the  return  of  twilight  shall  make  it  safe 
for  them  to  venture  out  in  search  of  food  and 
pleasure. 

Of  a  creature  leading  such  a  life  as  this,  so 
strangely  at  variance  with  all  our  notions  of 
bird-nature,  one  might  expect  something  un- 
usual in  appearance  and  structure. 

Taking  the  bird  in  your  hand  you  are  struck 
by  the  general  resemblance  in  its  form  to  a 
chimney-swift,  and  are  not  surprised  to  find  it 
classified  in  the  books  next  to  the  swift  family. 
Here  are  the  same  muscular  shoulders  support- 
ing long,  pointed  wings,  the  short,  stout,  wedge- 
shaped  tail,  capable  of  wide  expansion,  and  hav- 
ing great  power  in  guiding  and  checking  flight, 
— as  is  needful  in  a  bird  whose  activity  in  the 
air  must  surpass  that  of  a  moth  or  grasshopper, 
— the  short  legs  and  weak  feet,  and  the  minute 
beak  terminating  a  vast  mouth.  Its  legs  are 
feathered  to  the  toes,  perhaps  to  prevent  ants 
and  other  minute  biting  insects  crawling  up 
upon  them  during  its  daylight  sleep;  and  the 
middle  toe  is  greatly  prolonged  and  furnished, 
on  the  undersides  of  its  claw,  with  "  pectina- 
*$  164  So* 


The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  Will 

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tions "  forming  a  regular  comb,  useful  for 
cleaning  its  long  whiskers,  and  for  keeping  its 
head  free  from  the  parasites  to  which  a  day- 
sleeping  bird  must  be  especially  exposed. 

The  head  of  the  whip-poor-will  is,  indeed,  its 
most  peculiar  part.  Large,  round,  fluffy  and 
bewhiskered,  its  owl-like  aspect  (more  striking 
in  some  of  the  eared  tropical  species  than  in  this 
one)  is  enhanced  by  the  great  brown  eyes  that 
bespeak  the  nocturnal  habitant,  and  by  the 
diminutive,  almost  hidden  beak,  arched  above 
and  up  curved  at  the  point  below,  forming  a  pair 
of  pincers  well  able  to  hold  a  struggling  moth. 
These  pointed,  horny  lips  are  only  the  extrem- 
ity, however,  of  a  mouth  and  throat  so  capa- 
cious that  when  they  are  opened  it  seems  as 
though  the  head  were  split  in  halves  ;  and  it  is  to 
this  great  mouth,  quite  big  enough  to  take  in 
the  teat  of  a  goat,  coupled  with  their  habit  of 
leaping  about  the  cattle  in  the  evening  in  pur- 
suit of  the  insects  they  stir  up,  that  these  birds 
owe  their  ancient  name  caprimulgus, — a  goat- 
milker  ;  but  night- jar  is  a  better  term.  Spring- 
ing from  the  upper  lip  is  an  array  of  stiff 
^  165  £»» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

bristles,  some  of  which  reach  out  far  beyond 
the  tip  of  the  bill  and  then  curve  inward,  aiding 
in  the  capture  of  the  bird's  agile  prey  by  en- 
tangling their  wings  as  if  in  a  trap. 

Another  resemblance  to  the  owls  (and  inci- 
dentally to  the  nocturnal  moths  as  compared 
with  the  diurnal  butterflies)  is  found  in  the 
fluffy  softness  and  neutral  tints  of  the  plumage. 

Complete  noiselessness  is  highly  important  to 
the  success  of  nocturnal  creatures,  whether 
hunting  or  hiding;  and  even  more  so  is  invisi- 
bility of  hue.  Gay  colors  need  daylight  for 
their  display,  as  well  as  for  easy  recognition, 
and  would  not  only  be  wasted  upon  a  night- 
ranging  animal,  but  might  become  a  source  of 
positive  danger  during  the  day,  exposing  the 
wearer  to  discovery  and  an  assault  that  he  could 
neither  avoid  nor  repel.  The  night- jars  are 
utterly  defenseless  birds.  The  Southern  chuck- 
will's-widow  is  said  to  pretend  to  prodigious 
powers  of  harm,  ruffling  its  feathers  and  hissing 
like  a  snake  when  disturbed  from  its  rest  in  a 
hollow  log ;  but  in  reality  it  can  make  no  defense, 
and  like  the  others  must  rely  wholly  upon  being 
+§  166  $+> 


The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  SVill 
I 

overlooked  or  managing  to  dart  out  of  danger. 
Nature  has  therefore  done  the  best  she  could 
for  these  weaklings  by  making  them  incon- 
spicuous. 

Our  whip-poor-will,  indeed,  is  an  excellent 
example  of  the  adaptation  of  animal  colors  to 
customary  surroundings.  Its  plumage  presents 
to  the  eye  at  a  little  distance  a  brownish  neutral 
tint  blended  of  ochres,  grays,  browns  and  blacks, 
apportioned  in  an  exquisite  pattern  to  each  silky 
feather;  the  only  break  is  made  by  a  rather 
obscure  crescent  of  white  upon  the  breast,  which, 
through  the  overlapping  of  feathers  and  dim 
reflections  from  the  ground,  quite  disappears 
when  the  bird  is  sitting  in  its  usual  squatting 
fashion.  In  fact,  when  the  whip-poor-will  is 
at  rest  in  the  flickering  gray-green  light  of  the 
woods,  the  whole  of  it  practically  disappears, — 
becomes  as  unnoticeable  as  any  fallen  leaf  or 
chip, — and  the  bird  understands  very  well  how 
to  avail  itself  of  such  protection,  by  crouching 
low  and  keeping  utterly  still.  Species  that  live 
on  open  plains  are  gifted  with  almost  supernat- 
ural abilities  in  this  direction. 

+§  167  £*> 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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The  whip-poor-will's  singular  habit  of  sitting 
lengthwise,  instead  of  crosswise,  as  other  birds 
do,  upon  a  log  or  bough,  arises,  I  believe,  from 
this  instinct  for  concealment  rather  than  from 
any  inability  to  perch  transversely.  In  the  ac- 
tivity of  the  night,  or  when  solicitous  about  a 
discovered  nest,  they  will  often  stand  athwart 
a  bough  or  fence-rail  like  any  other  bird.  That 
they  ordinarily  sit  lengthwise  during  their  diur- 
nal siesta  I  believe  is  due  to  a  feeling  that  they 
are  safer  that  way — a  matter  we  can  explain 
by  observing  that  in  that  position  they  simu- 
late a  knot  or  the  stub  of  a  broken  limb,  and 
thus  escape  eyes  that  would  at  once  mark  a 
crosswise  attitude.  I  am  surprised  that  no  one 
has  called  attention  to  this  before,  since  some- 
thing similar  is  highly  characteristic  of  cer- 
tain tropical  species.  Mr.  W.  Saville  Kent, 
who  had  a  close  acquaintance  with  the  Austra- 
lian night-jar,  called  "  morepork,"  tells  us — 
and  shows  photographs  to  prove  it — that  when- 
ever it  is  alarmed,  as,  for  instance,  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  hawk  in  the  sky,  "  this  bird  will 
at  once  straighten  itself  up  stiffly,  and,  with  its 

«•$  168  £» 


The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  Will 

r 

mottled  feathers  closely  pressed  to  its  body, 
assume  so  perfect  a  resemblance  to  the  branch 
upon  which  it  is  seated,  that,  even  at  a  short 
distance,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  recognize  it. 
.  .  .  People  have  actually  placed  their  hand 
on  the  bird,  when  seated  on  a  rail  or  log  fence, 
before  being  conscious  of  its  presence. 
It  will  thus  remain  stiff  and  motionless,  and  not 
attempt  to  fly  away,  until  forcibly  removed." 
Again,  Mr.  Frank  M.  Chapman  has  lately  de- 
scribed how  a  Mexican  species  will  behave,  under 
fear,  in  almost  the  same  way,  assuming  an  atti- 
tude so  thin,  gray  and  rigid,  with  closely  ap- 
pressed  feathers  and  beak  pointing  to  the  sky, 
that  no  naturalist  need  feel  ashamed  of  mis- 
taking the  bird  for  an  upright  stub  or  splinter. 
It  is  true  that  the  legs  and  feet  of  our  whip- 
poor-will  are  poorly  adapted  to  firm  grasping, 
but  this  may  be  more  or  less  the  effect  rather 
than  the  cause  of  the  practice  referred  to. 

As  nature  cannot  afford  to  make  this  mantle 

of  invisibility  so  perfect  that  the  birds  shall  not 

be   able   to  find   each  other,   she  has   provided 

them  with  a  private  badge  or  signal,  whereby 

*$  169  £•» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

they  may  easily  recognize  one  another  in  the 
air — the  only  time  (except  as  between  mated 
couples)  when  there  is  any  need  for  such  recog- 
nition marks.  This  badge  is  a  large  patch  of 
white  bordering  the  tail.  It  is  near  the  end  on 
each  side,  and  slides  out  of  sight  underneath 
the  central  quills  when  the  bird  is  quiet,  but  is 
conspicuously  displayed  when  the  tail  is  fanned 
out  in  flight.  This  is  also  a  badge  of  the  male 
sex,  for  in  the  hens  these  outer  tail-feathers  are 
cream-colored  and  not  nearly  so  plain  to  view — 
another  indication  that  among  birds  the  female 
chooses  her  mate  rather  than  is  chosen ;  it  is 
consequently  more  important  that  she  should  be 
able  to  recognize  and  follow  him  than  that  he 
should  always  know  her. 

In  all  birds  the  spring  molt  is  followed  by  the 
brightest  plumage  of  the  year.  Tennyson's 
"  livelier  iris  comes  upon  the  burnished  dove,"  is 
good  ornithology.  In  many,  moreover,  tempo- 
rary nuptial  finery  is  put  on  in  the  way  of 
novel  and  sometimes  gorgeous  colors  and  frills, 
that  disappear  after  the  breeding-season.  Our 
goldfinch  and  bobolink  are  familiar  local  ex- 

«•$  170  &* 


The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  Will 

r 
amples,  and  more  striking  ones  may  be  found 

in  the  tropics.  Even  some  of  the  somber  sea- 
birds,  like  the  shag,  assume  a  gay  top-knot  as 
an  advertisement  of  their  desire  to  marry ;  and, 
in  short,  it  is  a  general  rule  that  male  birds  add 
something  attractive  to  their  dress  on  the  ap- 
proach of  the  nesting-time. 

Among  nocturnal  birds  an  accession  of  color 
would  evidently  be  ineffective,  and  such  nuptial 
ornaments  as  they  indulge  in  must  attract  by 
form  rather  than  by  color.  Nowhere  is  this 
more  curiously  shown  than  by  tropical  night- 
jars. In  one  South  American  group  the  wings 
of  the  males  have  three  of  the  flight-feathers 
enormously  elongated,  so  that  they  trail  or 
flutter  like  streamers  as  the  bird  flies;  and  in 
another  the  two  outer  tail-feathers  are  more 
than  twice  the  length  of  the  bird's  body,  -and 
bend  inward  at  the  tips  antil  their  white  points 
nearly  meet.  It  is  a  singular  sight  to  watch 
one  of  these  "  lyre-tails  "  hawking  after  insects, 
the  long  plumes  opening  and  shutting  like  a 
pair  of  flexible  calipers. 

Central  Africa  shows  even  more  remarkable 
+§  171  $+> 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

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ornaments  distinguishing  the  male  night-jars 
and  putting  them  among  the  curiosities  of  bird- 
life.  The  one  best  known  is  the  standard-wing 
(Cosmetornis),  where  one  of  the  outer  feathers 
in  each  wing  is  several  times  the  length  of  the 
others,  and  undulates  behind  the  bird  in  its 
evening  flight  like  a  ghostly  streamer,  for  it  is 
the  only  white  feather  in  the  wing.  Another 
has  similarly  elongated  quills,  but  these  are  bare 
almost  to  the  end,  where  a  brown,  paddle-shaped 
vane  appears,  barred  with  black;  and  Schwein- 
furth  tell  us  that  as  the  bird  "  chases  the  mice 
it  looks  as  though  it  had  a  couple  of  satellites 
in  attendance."  The  Arabs  call  it  Father 
Four-wings.  It  appears  only  after  dark,  and 
scientific  observers  are  so  few  in  its  country  that 
we  don't  know  much  about  the  bird;  but  Prof. 
Alfred  Newton  gives  in  his  great  "  Dictionary 
of  Birds  "  a  note  and  picture  which  show  it 
roosting  in  the  daytime  on  the  ground  with  its 
wing-quills,  some  twenty  inches  long,  held  per- 
fectly upright,  so  that  the  little  terminal  vanes 
tremble  unnoticeable  among  the  heads  of  the 
grasses. 


The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  Will 

r 

Considering  the  fact  that  neither  our  North 
American,  the  European  nor  the  Asiatic  night- 
jars sport  such  appendages  in  the  breeding-sea- 
son or  at  any  other  time,  the  reason  for  their 
existence  in  these  scattered  tropical  species  is  a 
problem  which  I,  at  least,  cannot  solve.  It 
would  seem  as  though  such  extras,  however 
much  enjoyed  and  proudly  flourished  by  their 
owners,  would  be  more  trouble  and  risk  than 
they  were  worth.  Professor  Poulton  has  elab- 
orated a  theory  that  long  tails  and  fluttering 
appendages  such  as  these  serve  a  purpose  of 
safety  by  tempting  a  pursuer  to  seize  upon  and 
thereby  lose  the  body  of  his  quarry,  because 
they  will  easily  break  off  or  pull  out;  but  why 
should  nature  make  elaborate  preparations 
to  have  a  creature  almost  caught,  (and  then 
maimed)  in  order  to  insure  its  safety?  On  the 
other  hand  it  is  observable  that  these  lengthened 
wing-quills  do  retard  and  interfere  with  flight 
(though  long  tail-feathers  do  not  seem  to  do 
so),  and  hence  are  really  disadvantageous. 
This  may  be  one  of  nature's  errors,  tending  to 
the  extinction  rather  than  to  the  prosperity 

<•$  173  5» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

of  the  species.     Development  is  not  invariably 
upward. 

Our  whip-poor-wills  announce  their  arrival  in 
May  by  their  familiar  call,  but  some  days  pass 
before  they  get  into  full  song,  and  even  then 
they  are  much  influenced  by  weather,  keeping 
silent  when  it  is  gloomy,  even  for  several  days  in 
succession,  while  on  warm  moonlit  nights  they 
are  vociferous  from  dusk  to  dawn.  Ordinarily, 
a  couple  of  hours  after  dark  and  another  hour 
or  two  before  dawn  give  them  time  enough  to 
express  themselves.  They  are  remarkably  reg- 
ular as  to  the  time  (referred  to  the  setting  of 
the  sun)  of  commencing  and  quitting,  and  they 
like  to  resort  to  the  same  spot  night  after  night. 
One  will  often  make  a  beginning  and  then  seem 
to  stop  and  try  it  over  again,  like  a  person  prac- 
ticing a  new  tune ;  but  these  interruptions  really 
mean  so  many  leaps  into  the  air,  with  perhaps 
frantic  dodges  and  a  somersault  or  two,  for  the 
snatching  and  devouring  of  some  lusty  insect 
that  objects  to  the  process.  They  never  reg- 
ularly sweep  through  the  upper  air  as  does  the 
nighthawk,  but  seek  their  food  near  the  ground 


The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  Will 

r 

by  leaping  after  it  in  short,  erratic  flights. 
They  have  a  way  of  balancing  themselves  near 
a  tree-trunk  or  barn-wall,  picking  ants  and 
other  small  provender  off  the  bark;  and  even 
hunt  for  worms  and  beetles  on  the  ground,  turn- 
ing over  the  leaves  to  root  them  out.  It  is  not 
until  their  first  hunger  has  been  assuaged  that 
one  hears  that  long,  steady  chanting  for  which 
the  bird  is  distinguished,  and  which,  as  a  sus- 
tained effort,  is  perhaps  unequaled  elsewhere. 

The  singer  is  fond  of  perching  upon  a  stone, 
— rocky  hillsides  are  favorite  resorts, — or  upon 
a  stump,  fence-post  or  shed-roof.  I  do  not 
believe  he  ever  sings  in  the  air,  though  low  mur- 
murings  may  be  heard  as  he  flits  past,  for  he 
seems  to  need  a  solid  fulcrum  under  his  feet 
for  the  great  physical  effort  his  utterance  seems 
to  cost.  He  begins  by  a  sharp,  liquid  churp! 
like  the  plumping  of  a  big  drop  into  a  cistern, 
then  swings  into  his  loud  monotonous  recitative. 

To  my  ear  he  does  not  say  "  whip-poor-will  " 
at  all,  yet  it  is  not  easy  to  write  down  an  exact 
interpretation  of  the  notes.  The  first  syllable 
is  a  clear  whistle  strongly  accented  and  end- 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 
Jf 

ing  in  a  hard  t — not  in  a  palatal.  The  last 
part  is  a  forcible  wheyo — that  sound,  as  of  a 
switch  lashed  through  the  air,  which  gives  us 
our  word  whip.  The  emphasis  is  very  great. 
All  the  breath  the  bird  has  seems  driven  into  the 
final  syllable — tongue-lashing,  of  the  most  lit- 
eral and  vindictive  sort,  which  can  be  heard 
half  a  mile.  Nuttall,  often  so  felicitous  in  por- 
traying bird-music,  writes  it  'whip-'whip-poor 
will,  'whip-peri  will,  noting  with  truth  that  the 
repetitions  tend  to  fall  into  pairs;  and  he 
adds  that  to  the  ears  of  the  aboriginal  Dela- 
ware its  call  was  wecowdlis,  but  thought 
that  "  probably  some  favorite  phrase  or  inter- 
pretation." Others  tell  us  that  the  Seminoles  of 
Florida  imitate  it  by  wac-co-ldr,  and  the  Chip- 
pewas  of  Minnesota  by  gwen-go-wi-d.  In  "  The 
Auk  "  (viii,  35)  Mr.  S.  P.  Cheney  has  given  a 
whole  page  of  musical  notation  to  illustrate 
variations  perceptible  to  the  trained  ear. 

Considerable   individuality   is    perceptible   in 

their  voices,  and  they  are  likely  to  improvise 

unusual  endings,  or  to  break  off  with  comical 

abruptness,  as  though  suddenly  seized  with  dis- 

*S  176  £» 


The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  Will 

r 

gust  at  the  performance.  The  sharply  whistled 
whit-to-wheyo  is  rarely  given  singly,  though  one 
sometimes  hears  whit,  whit,  whit,  repeated  soft 
and  low,  or  a  sharp  chirk,  or  liquid  gurglings 
that  seem  outpourings  of  a  heart  full  of  happi- 
ness. 

But  this  is  chatter  and  woman-talk,  for  when 
the  head  of  the  family  really  sings  he  makes 
the  woods  ring  with  a  surprising  clamor. 
Launching  his  voice  at  full  strength,  he  strikes 
at  once  into  a  gait  of  about  sixty  repetitions  to 
the  minute,  and  keeps  at  it  as  regularly  as  a 
machine  for  several  minutes.  It  is  an  ordinary 
feat  for  him  to  "  whip  poor  Will "  with  two  or 
three  hundred  strokes  in  unbroken  succession, 
and  sometimes  the  flagellation  goes  further,  my 
wife  noting  in  one  instance,  when  one  summer 
we  made  a  business  of  counting  the  beats,  no 
less  than  831  unbroken  repetitions,  lasting 
nearly  fifteen  minutes  and  then  stopping  sud- 
denly in  full  voice.  Such  a  performance  seems 
objectless,  except  as  a  show  of  endurance,  but 
as  such  it  is  truly  wonderful. 

Another  very  queer  thing  about  this  song  is 
<*?  177  ^ 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

the  click  to  be  noted  between  each  whit-to- 
wheyo,  audible  several  rods  away  under  fa- 
vorable conditions;  but  this  follows  the  final 
syllable  with  such  suddenness  as  to  seem  coin- 
cident with  it,  and  so  exactly  resembles  a  tap- 
ping together  of  dry  sticks  that  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  convince  yourself  that  it  is  a  vocal 
utterance. 

To  hear  a  single  whip-poor-will  calling  alone 
is  uncommon.  Usually  a  second  or  several  birds 
begin  their  evensong  about  the  same  time,  and 
then  vie  with  one  another  with  angry  energy. 
When  they  are  many,  the  racket  raised  soon 
becomes  tiresome;  but  where  there  are  only  two 
their  rivalry  is  amusing.  Each  shouts  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  as  if  trying  to  drown  his  rival, 
and  failing  that  he  increases  his  speed  until  each 
bird  is  working  at  a  breathless  rate,  but  bound 
to  outlast  the  other.  The  result  is,  that  after 
a  few  moments  they  coincide  in  time,  when,  as 
neither  can  any  longer  hear  the  other,  each 
stops,  believing  itself  the  victor. 

While  these  braggart  cocks  are  denouncing 
"  poor  Will "  throughout  the  summer  evenings, 

^  178  £» 


The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  Will 

r 

and  often  waking  us,  to  our  disgust,  long  before 
dawn  by  their  "  damnable  iteration,"  the  patient 
hens  are  secretly  pursuing  the  joys  and  labor  of 
maternity. 

Like  all  its  tribe,  except  the  aberrant  group 
Podargus  of  New  Zealand,  our  whip-poor- 
will  lays  its  eggs  upon  the  ground  in  the 
woods,  making  no  nest  whatever  and  seeking  no 
particular  concealment.  It  chooses  an  open, 
dryish  spot,  perhaps  with  the  feeling  that  such 
places  are  likely  to  be  overlooked  by  the  ani- 
mals ever  prowling  through  the  thickets  in 
search  of  eggs  or  fledglings.  Professor  New- 
ton asserts  that  the  British  night-jar,  or  fern- 
owl, which  is  closely  like  its  American  cousin 
in  habits,  returns  year  after  year  to  the  same 
spot  to  breed,  and  many  indications  suggest  that 
our  whip-poor-wills  have  the  same  constancy. 

The  eggs  are  always  two  in  number,  rather 
large  for  the  bird  and  of  equal  thickness  at 
both  ends ;  and  are  cream-colored,  prettily  spec- 
kled with  lilac  and  red.  As  if  aware  that  they 
may  be  easily  seen,  the  mother  broods  very 
closely  during  daylight.  Watching  you  with 
^  179  to* 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 
r 

intent  alarm,  she  will  quietly  let  you  come  quite 
close,  trusting  to  the  invisible  rusty  hue  of  her 
back ;  but  at  your  next  step  her  fears  overcome 
her  prudence  and  she  is  off  like  a  fleeing  shadow, 
never  fluttering  away,  pretending  to  be  wing- 
broken,  as  does  the  nighthawk  when  similarly 
disturbed.  This,  very  likely,  is  the  first  inti- 
mation you  have  of  her  presence;  and  then,  as 
your  eye  alights  upon  her  treasures  and  you 
stoop  down  to  examine  them,  you  hear  the  soft 
duckings  of  the  distressed  mother,  and  perhaps 
see  her  flitting  in  timid  circles  around  you  as 
if  tethered  by  a  cord.  Audubon  declares  that 
these  birds  will  move  their  eggs  to  a  safe  place  if 
they  are  handled  by  any  one ;  and  describes  how 
he  himself  saw  each  of  a  pair  of  chuck-will's- 
widows  pick  up  an  egg  in  its  mouth  and  fly  away 
with  it.  He  also  says  that  they  will  carry  the 
fledglings  out  of  danger  in  the  same  way;  and 
Wilson  tells  how,  after  he  had  been  sketching 
a  downy  young  whip-poor-will,  on  going  back 
for  a  forgotten  pencil,  he  found  that  his  little 
model  had  disappeared,  although  unable  to 
travel.  There  is  no  reason  to  discredit  these 
o$  180  &» 


The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  Will 

r 

stories,  although  recent  confirmation  of  them  is 
lacking. 

The  fledglings  are  not  born  naked,  as  are 
those  of  most  small  birds,  but  clothed  with  a 
yellowish  down  so  near  the  color  of  the  dead 
leaves  on  which  they  lie  as  almost  to  defy  search, 
' — and  they  remain  absolutely  quiet. 

Now  this  rigidity  and  silence,  as  a  measure 
of  safety  in  these  infant  birds,  must  be  purely 
instinctive,  for  they  are  characteristic  of  the 
very  youngest,  who  could  not  have  learned  the 
trick  from  their  parents.  Why  does  not  the 
terror  that  causes  the  mother  to  rush  away 
communicate  itself  to  them  as  an  impulse  to 
flutter  away  also  ?  And  why  do  not  they  answer 
her  anxious  duckings?  Instead  of  this,  they 
lie  close  and  dumb,  and  when  at  last  you  find 
one  and  take  it  up  it  will  squat  in  the  palm  of 
your  hand  as  motionless  as  if  paralyzed.  The 
fledglings  of  tree-nesting  birds  do  not  behave 
in  that  way:  they  must  be  well-grown  before 
they  will  show  either  fear  or  caution  at  your 
approach,  and,  in  spite  of  the  warnings  of  their 
agonized  mother,  will  cry  just  as  loudly  when 
+$  181  §+> 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

a  shrike,  or  a  weasel,  or  a  bird's-nesting  boy 
appears  at  their  door,  as  when  their  own  parents 
come  there.  This  noisy  loquacity,  in  fact, 
brings  destruction  to  them,  as  often  as  the 
young  whip-poor-wills  escape  it  by  their  sensible 
silence,  notwithstanding  their  more  exposed 
situation. 

The  young  are  fed  at  first  mainly  upon  half- 
digested  food  disgorged  by  the  parents,  and 
later  upon  soft  worms  until  able  to  receive  and 
digest  beetles  and  winged  insects.  The  parents 
are  brave  in  their  defense,  but  this  must  be 
mainly  by  "  bluffing,"  for  no  bird  is  so  poorly 
provided  with  weapons  as  this.  "  The  chuck- 
will' s-widow,"  Audubon  tells  us,  "  manifests  a 
strong  antipathy  toward  all  snakes,  no  matter 
how  harmless  they  may  be.  Although  these 
birds  cannot  in  any  way  injure  the  snakes,  they 
alight  near  them  on  all  occasions,  and  try  to 
frighten  them  away  by  opening  their  prodigious 
mouth  and  emitting  a  strong,  hissing  murmur." 

It  would  by  no  means  be  surprising  if  a 
bird  like  this  should  share  with  the  owl  and  the 
bat  a  superstitious  regard  from  those  ignorant 
*$  182  fc 


The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  Will 

r 

of  nature  and  fond  of  mysteries.  There  still 
lingers  among  us  the  imported  tradition  of  its 
milking  the  cattle,  which  began,  perhaps,  among 
the  goat  herds  on  Mt.  Olympus;  but  that  mis- 
take is  almost  world-wide,  existing  even  in  the 
heart  of  the  Sudan.  Wilson  hints  at  quaint 
beliefs  among  the  farmers  of  his  day,  but,  un- 
fortunately for  lovers  of  folk-lore,  he  fails  to 
recite  them;  an  earlier  naturalist  of  Philadel- 
phia, Dr.  Benjamin  S.  Barton,  records,  how- 
ever, that  "  it  is  an  old  observation  in  Pennsyl- 
vania, that  when  the  whip-poor-will  arrives  it  is 
time  to  go  barefooted." 

Down  in  Virginia  they  say  that  the  white 
spots  on  the  wings  of  its  cousin,  the  nighthawk, 
are  silver  dollars. 

As  for  the  bodings  and  dire  omens  so  fre- 
quently referred  to  in  ornithological  writings 
of  the  sentimental  sort,  a  somewhat  extensive 
search  has  shown  only  that  in  northern  New 
England  (where  the  bird  is  rare)  it  is  believed 
that  a  whip-poor-will  singing  beneath  your  bed- 
room window  presages  your  early  death.  In 
more  southerly  regions,  where  the  bird  comes 

«o$  183  fo 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

every  night  close  to  the  house,  no  such  a  super- 
stition can  survive,  of  course.  I  was  more  sur- 
prised, however,  at  not  being  able  to  find  that 
this  bird  has  any  part  in  the  folk-lore  of 
weather  signs. 

Indian  folk-lore  is  almost  equally  barren. 
The  Carolina  Indians  told  Catsby  that  they 
had  never  heard  whip-poor-wills  until  after  one 
of  the  tribe's  early  battles  with  Europeans,  and 
hence  considered  them  the  souls  of  their  ances- 
tors killed  in  that  battle;  but  this  has  the  ear- 
marks of  a  "  yarn."  Dr.  Barton,  writing  in 
Philadelphia  in  1799,  remarks: 

"  Some  of  our  Indians  believe  that  this  bird  is 
a  messenger  sent  to  call  their  attention  to  the 
planting  of  the  ground.  Accordingly,  upon  the 
arrival  of  the  whip-poor-will,  they  say  to  one 
another,  '  The  wee-co-lis  is  come :  it  is  planting- 
time'  ;  and,  while  the  bird  is  uttering  the  sound  of 
whip-poor-will,  or  wee-co-lis,  they  will  repeat  the 
word  hacJcibeck,  which  is  '  plant  the  ground.' ' 

Modern  Iroquois  indulge  the  pretty  fancy 
that  the  moccasin-flowers  (cypripediums)  are 
the  whip-poor-will's  shoes. 

*$  184  &* 


The  Bird  that  Whips  Poor  Will 

r 

The  Utes  call  the  bird  a  god  of  the  night; 
and  say  that  it  made  the  moon  by  magic  trans- 
formation of  a  frog;  and  among  the  Sioux  and 
Omahas  a  pretty  custom  leads  a  person  whose 
attention  is  attracted  to  the  calling  of  the 
whip-poor-wills  at  night  to  go  out  and  ques- 
tion them,  by  asking  "No?"  Should  the 
birds  stop  at  once  it  is  a  sign  that  the  ques- 
tioner must  die  soon ;  but  if  the  birds  continue 
singing  he  will  continue  to  live  for  a  long 
time. 


185 


Birds  of  a  Feather 


~l^"T"OTHING    is    more    characteristic    of 

^y  autumn  than  the  assembling  of  birds 
-"*-  ^  in  companies,  sometimes  of  vast  extent. 
Each  consists,  usually,  of  birds  of  a  single  sort 
only,  whence  the  proverb  as  to  "  birds  of  a 
feather." 

This  familiar  fact  illustrates  one  trait  of 
birds  that  is  seldom  recognized,  and  it  is  very 
pleasing  —  the  sociability  which  arises  from  a 
sympathetic  nature. 

It  is  true  that  various  advantages  may  come 
from  the  flocking  of  some  birds  during  migra- 
tions, and  that  necessity  may  account  for  other 
assemblages,  yet  in  most  cases,  at  any  rate 
among  the  smaller  songsters,  birds  seem  to  de- 
light in  the  company  of  their  kind  and  in  asso- 
ciation with  other  kinds  simply  for  the  sake 
of  it. 

That  hordes  of  water-birds  throng  about 
^  186  5» 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

r 

certain  cliffy  coasts  of  islets,  or  within  the  re- 
cesses of  some  swamps,  is  due  mainly  to  the  fact 
that  places  suitable  for  their  nesting  and  feed- 
ing are  limited,  and  local  crowding  results ;  but 
this  will  not  explain  gregarious  breeding  habits 
in  others,  such  as  the  wild  pigeon  and  various 
swallows  and  seed-eaters. 

Mutual  self -protection  is  certainly  not  now 
the  reason  for  the  flocking,  whatever  may  have 
been  the  case  in  the  remote  past  (when  perhaps 
the  tendency  thus  arose  under  different  condi- 
tions), for  the  danger  from  enemies  to  birds 
in  this  country,  at  least,  is  increased  by  herding 
rather  than  diminished.  We  are  driven  back, 
then,  to  the  simple  and  natural  reason  that  birds 
enjoy  one  another's  society. 

This  fraternal,  sympathetic,  one  might  say 
affectionate,  disposition  is  apparent  in  all  their 
relations  with  one  another — that  is,  within  their 
own  tribe. 

Most  birds  show  much  conjugal  attachment, 
and  from  the  courting  time  in  spring  until  the 
young  are  well  grown  most  mates  remain  to- 
gether. Some  of  the  large  birds  of  prey  seem 

*$  187  So 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

I1 

to  mate  for  life,  owing  probably  to  scarcity 
of  possible  partners;  but  there  is  no  satisfac- 
tory evidence  of  this  custom  among  any  of  the 
little  birds,  though  it  has  often  been  asserted 
of  the  dove. 

It  is  the  female,  nevertheless,  who  directs  do- 
mestic affairs,  as  well  she  may,  for  she  does 
most  of  the  housework.  She  it  is  who  selects 
the  site,  and  is  the  architect  of  the  home,  deftly 
weaving  the  materials  and  fitting  them  within 
to  her  comfort.  Every  nest  bears  upon  its  in- 
terior the  impress  of  the  faithful  breast  that 
molded  its  form  with  loving  anticipation,  and 
brooded  there  with  patient  anxiety. 

At  the  same  time  the  male  is  in  most  cases 
a  worthy  assistant,  especially  among  those  birds 
which  dig  out  holes.  If  he  wears  a  brilliant 
plumage,  however,  the  male  is  likely  to  keep  out 
of  sight,  for  his  gaudy  presence  would  often  be 
a  dangerous  advertisement  of  the  home,  which 
both  parents  are  so  anxious  to  conceal. 

Hence,  while  the  wife  works  the  husband  sits 
within  her  hearing  and  sings,  partly  to  her,  no 
doubt,  but  mainly  because  he  feels  too  jolly  to 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

r 

keep  quiet.  At  night  he  roosts  near  her  while 
she  sleeps  on  the  nest,  or,  in  rare  cases,  he  builds 
a  nest-like  hut  for  himself — one  of  the  very  few 
instances  of  an  animal  taking  pains  to  erect  a 
shelter. 

The  baya  sparrow,  so  called,  a  weaver-bird 
of  India,  furnishes  the  best  example  of  these 
cock  nests,  but  each  pair  of  our  own  marsh 
wrens  construct  several  nests  (hollow  basket- 
balls among  the  reeds),  only  one  of  which  is 
occupied  for  brooding,  while  the  others  form 
sleeping  quarters  for  the  males  or  are  not  used 
at  all.  The  nest  of  the  baya,  however,  is  double, 
one  chamber  being  occupied  by  the  nest  proper, 
with  its  eggs  and  brooding  female,  while  the 
male  roosts  in  the  other  part. 

Our  small  woodpeckers,  too,  are  likely  to  dig 
two  holes,  in  one  of  which  the  father  of  the 
family  takes  shelter  when  he  pleases. 

While  the  eggs  are  being  laid  or  incubated 
the  male  holds  aloof  still  more  cautiously,  only 
darting  in  morning  and  evening  for  an  hour 
or  two  (regularly  timed)  after  his  mate  begins 
to  sit,  in  order  that  she  may  steal  away  for  food 
^  189  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

or  exercise;  yet  he  is  rarely  out  of  earshot,  so 
that  she  may  not  only  be  cheered  and  comforted 
by  his  singing,  but  may  summon  him  by  a  cry 
of  alarm  when  she  needs  help ;  and  it  is  a  poor 
sort  of  bird  indeed  that  will  not  instantly  rush 
to  defend  its  home. 

In  this  respect  birds  are  far  superior  to  the 
four-footed  animals,  according  to  our  ideas  of 
morality,  for  almost  all  of  them  will  boldly  and 
distinctly  fight  in  defense  of  nests  and  family, 
regardless  of  peril  to  themselves,  whereas  few 
if  any  male  mammals  will  do  so. 

Among  birds,  in  truth,  we  first  find  a  sense 
of  fatherhood  and  husbandhood,  for  when  their 
wives  are  busy  in  nest-building,  and  later  are 
brooding  upon  the  eggs,  their  mates  bring  them 
something  to  eat  and  when  the  young  are  fledg- 
lings the  father  as  well  as  the  mother  labors 
to  provide  for  them  the  enormous  quantity  of 
food  which  they  require.  This  helpfulness 
varies  with  different  species,  however,  some  be- 
ing much  more  attentive  and  maintaining  their 
family  relations  much  longer  than  others. 

Most  of  the  smaller  birds  of  this  country 
+$  190  So» 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

r 

choose  to  nest  alone,  scattering  far  and  wide 
over  their  breeding  range,  so  that  each  pair 
may  choose  a  hiding  place  and  have  little  compe- 
tition for  food  in  its  own  neighborhood.  They 
are  jealous  of  infringement  of  these  rights  of 
reservation,  but  rarely  quarrel  with  neighbors 
of  other  species. 

Thus  a  single  old  orchard  tree  will  often  har- 
bor half  a  dozen  families,  nesting  on  its  branches 
or  in  some  broken  cranny,  or  within  its  cham- 
bered trunk.  Even  the  peppery  oriole  will  per- 
mit that,  and  the  fish-hawk  lets  blackbirds  place 
their  nests,  as  sub-tenants,  among  the  sticks  that 
form  the  wall  of  his  huge  castle.  Among  such 
solitary  home-makers  are  species  most  gregari- 
ous in  the  fall,  such  as  our  blackbirds  and  bobo- 
links. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  few  land  birds  that  seem 
to  have  no  advantageous  reason  for  doing  so 
carry  their  love  of  society  into  their  domestic 
life  and  crowd  their  nests  close  together,  some- 
times forming  clusters  which  can  be  compared 
only  with  the  packed  tenement-houses  of  human 
cities.  The  most  conspicuous  instance  of  this 
<*£  191  5» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

among  American  birds  is  (or  was,  for  it  is  now 
almost  extinct)  the  wild  pigeon,  which  once  so 
loaded  the  trees  with  its  nests  and  perching  pairs 
that  limbs  would  break  under  their  weight,  and 
this  over  spaces  of  forest  several  miles  square. 
To  a  greater  or  less  degree  this  is  the  habit 
of  pigeons  elsewhere,  and  doubtless  it  is  owing 
to  this  companionability  in  its  temperament  that 
we  have  been  able  to  domesticate  many  varieties 
of  this  kind. 

Another  tribe  highly  sociable  in  its  nesting 
as  well  as  in  its  migratory  life  is  that  of  the 
swallows,  which,  in  all  parts  of  the  world,  not 
only  nestle  in  companies,  but  gather  into  im- 
mense wandering  bands  as  soon  as  their  family 
duties  are  over. 

Our  eave-swallows,  for  example,  whose  bulb- 
shaped  nests  of  mud  are  set  in  rows  beneath  the 
eaves  of  country  barns,  in  primitive  days  at- 
tached these  adobe  chambers  in  compact  masses 
against  the  faces  of  cliffs  and  clay  banks.  A 
similar  fondness  for  crowding  characterizes  all 
sorts  of  swallows ;  and  that  it  implies  a  peculiar 
companionability  of  temper  is  indicated  by  the 
^  192  £» 


J.  W.  James,  Phot. 


Nests  of  Wild  Eave,  or  Cliff,  Swallows 

They  are  massed  beneath  overhanging  ledges  on  the  face 
of  a  cliff  in  Arizona 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

r. 

fact  that  in  all  countries  swallows  have  been 
quick  to  attach  themselves  to  mankind  and  to 
make  their  homes  about  buildings. 

Such  bird-towns  or  collections  of  nests  may 
be  repeated  for  many  years,  and  yet  they  will 
be  nothing  more  than  so  many  separate  homes 
near  together.  There  is  no  united  community — 
almost  the  only  advantage  of  the  crowd  being 
that  some  are  always  on  the  lookout  and  ready 
to  alarm  the  rest  when  danger  threatens. 

The  same  is  true  of  the  vast  rookeries  of 
herons,  pelicans,  cormorants  and  many  sorts  of 
sea-fowl,  which  cover  remote  cliffs,  beaches  and 
islands,  with  as  many  nests  or  eggs  as  the  room 
permits.  They  are  gregarious  and  friendly,  but 
not  helpful  to  one  another  except  in  a  very  lim- 
ited, accidental  way. 

Little  more  can  be  said  of  the  weaver-birds. 
These  small  finches  are  numerous  in  South  and 
Central  Africa,  and  of  several  sorts.  All  build 
large  nests  of  grass,  lodged  among  the  tree- 
branches,  and  several  are  inclined  to  colonize, 
placing  half  a  dozen  or  so  structures  in  a  single 
tree-top.  One  species  goes  a  little  further  and 
*>$  193  $*> 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

joins  its  nests  together  into  a  huge  mass,  in 
which  each  pair  has  a  chamber  where  birds  and 
eggs  seem  safe  from  all  enemies  except  climb- 
ing-snakes; and  these  composite  structures  are 
repaired  and  used  year  after  year,  no  doubt  by 
the  descendants  of  the  original  builders. 

Still  more  advanced,  however,  are  the  colonies 
of  another  species,  the  "  social "  weaver,  which 
literally  dwell  under  one  roof.  These  birds 
erect  mushroom-shaped  structures  among  the 
branches  of  a  tree,  the  top  of  which  is  a  conical 
covering  of  grass,  all  lying  smooth  and  length- 
wise from  peak  to  eaves — a  regular  thatched 
roof.  In  the  thickness  of  this  roof  are  as  many 
nesting  chambers  as  there  are  pairs  in  the  flock 
• — perhaps  fifty  or  more.  The  entrances  are 
narrow  holes  on  the  under  side,  and  they  are 
almost  entirely  inaccessible,  while  the  thick  roof 
not  only  protects  the  sitting  mothers,  but  shel- 
ters the  whole  flock  from  blazing  sun  and  tor- 
rential rains. 

An  attack  upon  it  is  resented  by  the  com- 
bined forces  of  the  colony,  and  any  damage  done 
to  this  huge  structure  (which  may  be  five  or  six 
*>$  194  5» 


Birds  of  a  Feather 

r 

feet  in  diameter  and  visible  for  a  mile)  is  imme- 
diately repaired,  for  these  fine  apartment- 
houses  are  occupied  year  after  year.  This  is 
probably  the  nearest  approach  among  birds  to 
a  real  community  and  a  truly  social  life,  and  it 
is  the  highest  manifestation  of  their  graceful 
disposition  toward  companionability. 


195 


Do  Animals  "Commit  Suicide"? 

A   STUDY    OF    BRUTE    LIMITATIONS 

I        '       r 

IN  that  fascinating  book,  "Wild  Animals 
I  Have  Known,"  no  chapter  is  more  allur- 
ing in  its  mixture  of  plain  fact  and  fanci- 
ful interpretation  than  the  one  which  chronicles 
the  doings  of  the  Springfield  fox  and  its  dra- 
matic end.  This  story,  which  purports  to  be 
that  of  the  real  field-life  of  an  actual  American 
red  fox,  is  made  vivid  by  the  human  perceptions 
and  sentiments  attributed  to  the  animal  as  its 
own,  among  which  is  a  perfect  comprehension 
of  death.  This  fox,  it  appears,  knew  thor- 
oughly the  use  and  efficacy  of  poison.  That 
such  an  animal  may  learn  and  teach  its  young 
to  detect  by  smell  the  taint  of  poison  in  a  piece 
of  meat,  and  so  refuse  to  eat  the  morsel  on  the 
broad  ground  that  it  is  unsafe,  or  on  the  nar- 
rower ground  that  it  has  something  to  do  with 


Do  Animals  "Commit  Suicide"? 

r 

the  enemy,  man,  all  of  whose  works  are  to  be 
suspected,  is  easy  of  belief.  "  Vix  knew  right 
well,"  says  Mr.  Seton,  "  what  poisoned  bait  was ; 
she  passed  them  by  or  treated  them  with  con- 
tempt, but  one  she  dropped  down  the  hole  of 
an  old  enemy,  a  skunk,  who  was  never  afterward 
seen." 

One  must  wish  this  naturalist  would  substan- 
tiate by  more  particulars  this  revengeful  mur- 
der by  indirect  means,  which  seems  to  me  to 
imply  more,  in  several  directions,  than  we  have 
been  able  hitherto  to  grant  to  the  intelligence 
of  even  a  fox;  yet  this  is  easy  of  acceptance 
beside  the  further  deeds  of  this  prodigy,  after 
its  mate  had  been  shot  and  its  home  ravaged  by 
men  and  dogs.  Three  of  its  cubs  are  killed  and 
a  fourth  is  made  captive  and  chained  in  the 
farmer's  yard.  Night  after  night,  urged  by 
mother-love,  old  Vixen  comes  to  feed  her  im- 
prisoned bairn,  and  to  try  by  every  strength 
and  device  of  tooth  and  nail  and  mind  to  get  it 
free.  At  last  she  becomes  convinced  that  no 
effort  of  hers  can  loosen  the  chain,  and  the 
next  night  she  turns  to  her  last  resort: 

^  197  5» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

"  Like  a  shadow  she  came,  and  in  a  moment 
was  gone,  and  Tip  seized  on  something  dropped, 
and  crunched  and  chewed  with  relish  what  she 
brought.  But  even  as  he  ate,  a  knife-like  pang 
shot  through,  and  a  scream  of  pain  escaped  him. 
Then  there  was  a  momentary  struggle  and  the 
little  fox  was  dead. 

"  The  mother's  love  was  strong  in  Vix,  but  a 
higher  thought  was  stronger.  She  knew  right 
well  the  poison's  power,  .  .  .  now  at  last 
when  she  must  choose  for  him  a  wretched  pris- 
oner's life  or  sudden  death,  she  quenched  the 
mother  in  her  breast  and  freed  him  by  the  one 
remaining  door." 

After  that  Vixen  is  no  longer  seen  in  the 
neighborhood, — "  gone,  maybe,  deliberately," 
says  the  author,  "  from  the  scene  of  a  sorrowful 
life,  as  many  a  wildwood  mother  has  gone,  by 
the  means  that  she  herself  had  used  to  free  her 
young  one — the  last  of  all  her  brood." 

Now,  here  is  an  assertion,  as  of  observed 
facts;  first,  of  two  premeditated  murders  by  a 
brute  animal,  one  from  motives  of  prudence  and 
revenge,  and  another  from  motives  of  the  high' 
est  moral  import;  and,  second,  an  implication, 
«•$  198  £» 


Do  Animals  "Commit  Suicide''? 

r 

amounting  almost  to  an  assertion,  of  conscious 
suicide.  If  it  were  no  more  than  a  bit  of  pa- 
thetic fancy  it  would  be  worth  notice  only  as 
evidence  of  a  popular  notion,  but  it  is  woven 
into  what  is  declared  to  be  a  true  story  of  the 
conduct  of  life  by  an  actual  fox,  and  thus  takes 
its  place  as  an  assertion  of  history. 

But  do  animals  ever  kill  one  another,  except 
by  accident,  in  anger  or  as  prey?  And,  do 
animals  ever  commit  suicide? 

What  is  suicide?  Literally,  and  taking  the 
word  merely  as  it  stands,  nothing  more  than 
self -killing ;  but  the  customary  and  now  only 
proper  definition  involves  the  idea  of  intentional, 
voluntary  self-destruction,  and  this  implies  on 
the  part  of  the  being  so  acting  an  understanding 
of  the  circumstances  of  life  and  death, — at  least 
of  the  difference  between  them. 

The  literature  of  dog-stories — if  one  may  use 
the  expression — abounds  in  anecdotes  of  pets, 
or  of  canine  servants  of  the  hunter  and  shep- 
herd, which  have  grieved  themselves  into  a 
speedy  decline  and  death  by  exhaustion  due  to 
refusal  of  food,  on  the  graves  of  their  dead 

*$  199  £* 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

masters;  which  have  refused  to  leave  them  in 
moments  of  great  peril,  as  in  a  shipwreck,  and 
so  have  perished;  or  which  in  some  other  way 
have  sacrificed  their  lives  for  their  friends  or  at 
least  with  them.  All  these  incidents,  however, 
only  illustrate  that  remarkable  dependence  and 
sense  of  duty  which  distinguish  the  dog — an 
inheritance  from  innumerable  generations  of 
trained  ancestors  taught  to  be  "  faithful  unto 
death." 

Something  of  the  same  disposition  is  occa- 
sionally shown  in  the  horse,  which  stands  next 
to  the  dog  in  long  association  with  man.  The 
sense  of  dependence  upon  and  affection  for  a 
master  is  so  exceedingly  strong  in  most  dogs, 
that  when  one  of  them  is  suddenly  deprived  of 
companionship  it  is  no  wonder  it  places  itself 
as  near  as  possible  to  where  its  benefactor  has 
been  laid,  and  waits  for  his  reappearance,  fear- 
ing to  leave  the  place  even  for  a  moment,  lest 
it  shall  miss  his  return.  This  very  attitude 
proves  that  it  does  not  apprehend  the  finality 
of  its  master's  condition.  At  last  exhaustion, 
and  the  nervous  depression  resulting  from  grief, 

200  §+> 


Do  Animals  "Commit  Suicide"? 

r 

mysterious  dread  and  disappointment,  causes 
mortal  illness, — but  there  is  no  evidence  the  dog 
foresees  or  intends  a  fatal  result.  In  the  other 
class  of  cases,  the  idea  of  remaining  with  a 
master,  danger  or  no  danger,  or  of  defending 
him,  as  if  it  were  itself  attacked,  is  so  strong 
in  a  good  dog  as  to  overcome  timidity  and  pru- 
dence. 

Something  different  from  this  is  needed  as 
evidence  of  intentional  suicide;  and  when  the 
incidents  alleged  to  furnish  such  further  evi- 
dence are  examined,  they  are  always,  so  far  as 
has  come  to  my  knowledge,  found  wanting. 
Here,  for  an  instance,  is  one  published  in  Notes 
and  Queries  during  1898.  An  English  gentle- 
man, who  owned  a  small  terrier,  was  obliged  to 
go  to  the  Continent  for  his  health,  and  after  a 
few  weeks  died.  When  the  news  of  his  death 
came  the  dog  seemed  to  understand  what  had 
happened,  "  and  shared  the  grief  of  the  family 
to  such  an  overwhelming  extent  that  one  day  it 
went  to  an  upper  window  and  jumped  out,  kill- 
ing itself  in  a  very  distressing  way."  Any  one 
considering  this  narrative  a  moment  may  see 

^  201  ^      • 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

how  many  assumptions  it  contains,  and  espe- 
cially how  supposititious  is  the  conclusion.  There 
is  no  evidence  that  it  was  not  an  accident.  Ter- 
riers often  fall  from  windows  and  sometimes 
jump  from  them.  Only  a  short  time  ago  a  dog 
sprang  from  a  lofty  window-sill  in  New  York 
in  an  attempt  to  catch  a  bird ;  it  either  did  not 
know,  or  more  probably  forgot,  the  peril  of  the 
leap.  My  own  dog,  the  first  time  it  was  taken 
in  a  boat  upon  a  lake,  stood  on  the  prow  of  the 
boat  a  while  and  then  deliberately  sprang  over- 
board, where  it  was  immensely  surprised  and 
alarmed  to  find  itself  struggling  in  deep  water : 
all  the  water  it  knew  about  previously  was  very 
shallow. 

Had  not  the  circumstances  of  both  these  last- 
mentioned  cases  been  known,  and  especially  had 
they  been  associated  with  deaths  in  the  families, 
or  something  else  remarkable,  they  might  well 
have  been  adduced  as  examples  of  conscious  self- 
destruction. 

A  correspondent  of  The  Field  some  time  ago 
gave  a  long  account  of  how  a  terrier  between  re- 
peated attacks  of  "  fits,"  first  dashed  himself 
^202  5» 


Do  Animals  "Commit  Suicide"? 

r 

off  a  high  wall  and  then  ran  into  the  sea,  where, 
after  a  few  half-hearted  strokes,  it  turned  on 
its  back  and  drowned.  The  observer  declares 
his  belief  that  the  animal  deliberately  put  itself 
out  of  its  miseries,  but  most  of  us  cannot  but 
attribute  the  acts  to  temporary  insanity.  It  is 
difficult  to  separate  sympathy,  romance  and  tra- 
dition from  facts  and  cool  judgment,  in  such 
cases.  It  has  been  an  ancient  belief,  for  ex- 
ample, coming  down  from  the  middle  ages,  that 
a  scorpion  put  within  a  circle  of  fire  will  sting 
itself  and  die  as  soon  as  it  perceives  that  there 
is  no  escape;  but  not  only  do  not  modern  scor- 
pions turn  to  the  felo  de  se  as  a  release  from 
expected  pain,  but  no  scorpion  could  sting  itself 
to  death  if  it  tried. 

Perhaps  the  influence  of  these  old  fancies 
lingered  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Seton  when  in  an- 
other chapter  of  the  same  book  he  suggests  sui- 
cide as  the  final  proud  and  praiseworthy  act  of 
a  wild  stallion,  which  for  years  had  baffled  all 
pursuers.  At  last,  however,  an  organized  effort 
for  the  capture  of  the  "  pacing  mustang  "  was 
at  the  point  of  success : 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

"  The  man  rejoiced,  but  the  mustang  gath- 
ered his  remaining  strength  for  one  more  des- 
perate dash.  Up,  up  the  grassy  slope  from  the 
trail  he  went,  defied  the  swinging,  slashing  rope, 
and  the  gunshot  fired  in  air,  in  vain  attempt  to 
turn  his  frenzied  course.  Up,  up  and  on,  above 
the  sheerest  cliff  he  dashed,  then  sprang  away 
into  the  vacant  air,  down — down — two  hundred 
feet  to  fall,  and  landed  upon  the  rocks  below,  a 
lifeless  wreck — but  free." 

All  equine  animals  are  subject  to  insane  panic, 
when  they  lose  all  self-control  and  may  rush 
blindly  to  accidental  destruction;  but  this 
author,  who  claims  to  be  relating  actual  facts, 
doesn't  mean  us  to  understand  this  incident  in 
that  way.  I  should  like  to  hear  his  explanation 
of  how  this  black  mustang,  or  how  Vixen,  the 
fox-mother,  had  arrived  at  the  knowledge  that 
death  meant  freedom,  and  was  preferable  to  the 
halter?  What  experience  had  either  of  captiv- 
ity? No  such  condition  exists  in  nature:  what 
reason  had  they  to  foresee,  much  less  dread  it? 
Upon  what  data  could  they  create  a  mental  pic- 
ture (granting  imaginative  ability)  calculated 
to  alarm  them  so  profoundly? 
*>§  204  &* 


I 

I 

^ 

EH 


Do  Animals  "Commit  Suicide"? 

r 

If  horses  or  foxes  comprehend  so  much  as 
that,  why  do  not  thousands  of  over-worked,  half- 
fed,  cruelly  abused  domestic  animals,  and  many 
a  starving  or  tortured  wild  one,  commit  suicide 
every  day?  Why  do  not  fur-bearing  animals 
caught  in  traps  kill  themselves  at  once  instead 
of  dying  by  inches,  or  merely  gnawing  off  the 
fixed  foot, — an  act,  in  my  opinion,  due  to  an 
effort  to  relieve  the  dreadful  pain,  and  not  to 
a  deliberate  method  of  release.  Either  they  do 
not  know  enough,  or  else  their  sense  of  moral 
responsibility  is  superior  to  that  of  thousands 
of  their  masters. 

So  enamored  is  Mr.  Seton  of  this  conceit  of 
suicide  among  wild  creatures  that  he  resorts  to 
it  again  as  the  climax  of  his  "  Biography  of  a 
Grizzly," — a  childish  performance,  at  best,  for 
a  man  who  has  shown  such  literary  ability.  He 
disposes  of  his  hero,  supposed  to  be  a  typical 
bear,  living  an  average  life,  when  old  age  and 
rheumatism  make  him  feel  ill  and  unfit,  by  mak- 
ing him  go  to  a  certain  narrow  valley  which  he 
(the  bear)  knows  of,  and  which  is  strewn  with 
the  remains  of  animals  that  have  perished  in  the 
*>$  205  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

fumes  of  a  stream  of  noxious  gas  that  flows  out 
of  a  hole  in  the  rocks.  The  disgusting  odors 
of  Death  Gulch  "  had  a  message  for  him,"  and 
Bruin  meditates  that  it  is  far  to  Yellowstone 
Park,  where  he  may  end  his  days  in  peace  under 
the  protection  of  Uncle  Sam's  hospitality — 
though  how  could  a  grizzly  have  learned  that? 
Moreover,  as  the  sage  animal  reflects,  "  What's 
the  use?" 

"  Here  in  this  little  garden  was  all  he  sought ; 
here  were  peace  and  painless  sleep.  He  knew 
it;  for  his  nose,  his  never-erring  nose,  said 
*  Here !  here !  now ! '  He  paused  a  moment  at 
the  gate,  and  as  he  stood  the  wind-borne  fumes 
began  their  subtle  work.  ...  A  rush  of  his 
ancient  courage  surged  in  the  grizzly's  rugged 
breast.  He  turned  aside  into  the  little  gulch. 
The  deadly  vapors  entered  in,  filled  his  huge 
chest,  and  tingled  in  his  vast,  heroic  limbs,  as 
he  calmly  lay  down  on  the  rocky,  herbless  floor, 
and  gently  went  to  sleep." 

I  can  leave  to  others  the  literary  question 
whether  it  is  good  to  wind  up  a  story,  alleged 
to  be  of  facts,  with  a  purely  imaginative  de- 

^206  5» 


Do  Animals  "Commit  Suicide"? 

r 

nouement.  My  contention  now  is  that  animals 
do  not  know  anything  whatever  about  life  and 
death  as  contrasted  or  correlative  conditions; 
and  can  have  no  idea  that  life  may  be  ended, 
or  that  death  is  an  alternative  state  which  may 
be  arrived  at  by  fatal  means. 

Young  beasts  do  not  recognize  death  when 
they  see  it  manifested  in  a  lifeless  body — though 
the  highest  apes  seem  to  have  some  glimmering 
of  the  truth — but  will  linger  about  a  mother 
that  has  been  shot  and  try  to  awaken  her  at- 
tention. Older  animals  usually  recognize  a  dead 
body  as  dead,  but  the  state  seems  to  mean  to 
them  only  a  mysterious  disability, — incapacity 
for  resistance  and  readiness  to  be  eaten  at  lei- 
sure. In  the  case  of  carnivores,  the  last  is  proba- 
bly the  most  vivid  impression,  and  many  of  them 
will  devour  almost  at  once  a  partner,  or  even 
mate  or  offspring,  killed  by  their  side,  when  not 
themselves  too  much  alarmed  to  take  advantage 
of  the  lucky  provision.  Hunters  constantly 
meet  with  instances  of  this  "  cannibalism." 

I  have  watched  with  interest  the  behavior  of 
my  dogs  toward  dead  animals.  They  would 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

approach  them  cautiously,  uncertain  whether 
there  were  not  some  trick  of  play  or  hostile  ruse 
in  the  immobility,  until  they  could  smell  the  cold 
form,  then  would  turn  away  with  an  expression 
of  wonder  and  disgust,  but  no  further  interest. 
Hunting  animals  have  learned  that  in  order  to 
feed  upon  their  prey  they  must  reduce  it  to 
complete  disability:  it  is  the  submission — not 
the  death — of  the  creature  which  they  seek  when 
they  strike.  Such  was  the  idea  in  the  minds  of 
the  retrievers,  made  much  of  by  Romanes,  which 
kill  one  of  two  wounded  ducks  when  they 
find  it  impracticable  to  retrieve  both  birds  alive, 
as  they  are  expected  to  do.  The  dog  uses  its 
natural  dog  sense  in  completing  the  disablement 
of  an  unmanageable  thing,  in  order  to  accom- 
plish that  part  of  its  mission  which  it  feels  of 
the  highest  importance,  viz. :  To  get  the  game 
ashore,  somehow.  The  retriever  does  not  seek 
the  death  of  the  duck,  per  se,  but  merely  its 
instantaneous  acquiescence  in  his  plan. 

How  could  a  dog  or  any  other  brute  creature 
know  of  death  apart  from  its  outward  aspects 
of  disability  and  subsequent  dissolution  ?  What 


Do  Animals  "Commit  Suicide"? 

r 

more,  really,  do  we  know  about  it,  aside  from 
our  belief  in  Divine  Revelation,  or  in  the  deduc- 
tions of  metaphysics?  What  data  have  the 
brutes  for  supposing  that  it  gives  "  surcease  of 
sorrow,"  or  offers  any  refuge  from  distress, 
or  even  that  such  a  change  can  be  obtained  by 
one's  own  act? 

To  comprehend  the  fact,  not  to  say  the  na- 
ture, of  death,  one  must  comprehend  the  fact  of 
self-life,  and  all  that  we  know  of  the  range  of 
brute  intelligence  leads  us  to  deny  its  ability 
to  postulate  self-existence.  No  experience  can 
avail  brutes  in  judging  the  effect  of  being  lifeless, 
and  every  case  of  death  seen  must  seem  to  the 
onlookers  (if  they  "  sense  "  it  at  all)  utter  ruin 
^something  to  be  strenuously  avoided.  This 
is  the  natural  physical  view  of  death  which  must 
prevail  throughout  all  nature,  or  life  would 
come  to  an  end.  Everything  in  the  natural 
world  shapes  itself  and  tends  toward  the  preser- 
vation, in  order  to  insure  the  propagation,  of 
life.  All  feral  instincts  face  that  way,  and  to 
impartial  laws  and  processes,  with  which  indi- 
viduals have  nothing  to  do,  is  alone  intrusted 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

the  duty  of  keeping  within  bounds  the  degree 
of  multiplication. 

Self-sacrifice  is  a  supernatural,  human  idea, 
utterly  at  variance  with  all  nature  not  human, 
and  subversive  of  its  prime  reason  and  motive 
for  existing.  Nothing  could  be  more  illogical, 
or  wicked,  in  the  brute  world,  than  the  possi- 
bility of  intentional  self-destruction.  Dogs  and 
other  animals  may  sometimes  recklessly  expose 
their  lives  to  fatal  peril,  or,  influenced  by  some 
nervous  stress  or  extreme  emotion,  fall  ill  and 
die,  or  do  blindly  some  fatal  act;  but  we  may 
be  sure  that  no  animal  ever  truly  commits  sui- 
cide, because  no  animal  has  any  conception  that 
it  is  possible  to  do  so. 


210 


A  Turn-Coat  of  the  Woods 

-     r 

HEREWITH  is  reproduced  a  most  excel- 
lent photograph  from  life  of  a  little 
creature  which  almost  everyone  knows 
by  name  and  by  the  sound  of  its  voice,  but  which 
is  rarely  seen.     It  is  the  "  tree-toad  " — really 
not  a  toad  at  all,  despite  its  lumpish  and  warty 
appearance,  but  a  true  frog  that  spends  most 
of  its  time  in  the  trees  instead  of  on  the  ground 
or  in  the  water,  as  do  others  of  the  family. 

To  enable  these  small  frogs  to  make  their 
homes  on  the  smooth  and  shaking  branches  of 
trees,  they  are  given  special  means  of  holding 
tightly  to  an  upright  surface.  The  extended 
fingers  of  the  forefoot  are  not  connected  by 
webs,  as  are  those  of  the  water-frogs,  nor  termi- 
nated by  suckers,  like  those  of  some  climbing 
lizards,  but  are  thickened  at  the  ends  into  knobs, 
the  under  sides  of  which  form  cushions  always 
moist  with  a  sticky  perspiration  enabling  the 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

frog  to  take  a  firm  grasp  of  whatever  he 
touches. 

This  is  really  a  very  interesting  bit  of  mech- 
anism. The  holding-power  seems  really  due 
to  the  fact  that  all  air  is  pressed  out  from  be- 
neath the  pad  of  the  toe,  rather  than  to  either 
suction  (certainly  not  exerted)  or  the  stickiness 
of  the  secretion,  although  the  latter  helps.  The 
matter  was  experimentally  studied  by  the  Ger- 
man naturalist  Schuberg,  who  found  that  he 
could  support  more  than  the  weight  of  one  of 
these  frogs  from  a  bit  of  glass  merely  moistened 
and  pressed  against  another  glass  surface.  The 
glass  sides  of  a  case  or  fernery,  in  which  these 
frogs  are  kept  captive,  will  soon  be  smeared 
with  their  finger-marks. 

In  addition  to  this,  the  lower  half  of  the  abdo- 
men (where  the  skin  is  thick  and  porous)  also 
exudes  a  sticky  liquid,  so  that  when  the  animal 
sits  pressed  against  the  bark  of  a  tree-trunk,  or 
any  other  upright  surface,  he  is  really  glued 
there,  and  thus  supports  his  weight  more  easily 
than  if  he  clung  with  his  hands  and  feet  alone. 
All  the  same,  he  likes  to  sit  in  a  comfortable 
*$  212  £» 


A  Turn-Coat  of  the  Woods 

r 

crotch,  where  he  can  rest  his  back,  like  other 
folks. 

Lurking  in  such  a  place,  he  becomes  an  ogre 
to  minute  creeping  and  flying  bugs  of  all  sorts, 
who  never  notice  his  gray  or  green  coat  until 
out  darts  a  spoon-like  tongue,  and  they  are 
caught  and  dragged  into  his  stomach.  The 
little  ones  feed  especially  on  the  destructive 
plant-lice  (aphides),  and  thus  do  a  service  of 
great  and  particular  value  to  the  owners  of 
orchards,  and  recommend  themselves  as  most 
excellent  assistants  to  be  kept  in  a  conservatory 
or  hothouse. 

The  instrument  with  which  Mr.  Tree-toad 
catches  insect  food  is  his  tongue,  and  it  is  an 
extraordinary  one  of  its  kind.  It  is  almost  as 
round  as  a  ball — a  regular  lump  of  a  tongue — 
is  not  attached  at  the  hinder  end  and  capable 
of  being  stretched  out  forward,  but  beneath  its 
front  end,  so  that  it  is  rolled  over  and  its  hinder 
end  is  thrown  out  of  the  mouth,  something  as  a 
boy  throws  a  return-ball  attached  to  a  rubber 
cord.  It  is  coated  with  sticky  saliva,  and  so 
any  small  object  it  hits  adheres  to  it  and  is 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

brought  back  into  the  mouth,  which  has  a  few 
teeth  in  the  upper  jaw  to  help  crush  the  food 
if  necessary  to  do  so  before  swallowing  it. 

If  these  little  frogs  would  only  keep  quiet 
they  would  rarely  be  found  except  by  accident, 
but  they  are  the  noisiest  of  their  kind — in  fact, 
one  of  the  noisiest  creatures  in  the  woods,  espe- 
cially in  summer,  when  nature  generally  grows 
quiet.  The  skin  of  the  throat  is  as  elastic  as  a 
rubber  ball ;  and  gulping  down  a  great  quantity 
of  air,  the  hyla  will  distend  his  throat  until  it 
looks  like  a  small  balloon,  and  then  let  the  air 
escape  through  his  vocal  pipe  in  a  shrill  trill 
that  is  surprisingly  loud  and  sustained  for  so 
small  an  animal,  and  can  be  heard  a  surprising 
distance.  He  never  seems  to  consider  that  his 
shouting  will  betray  his  position,  but  will  keep 
at  it  while  you  stand  close  to  him  and  can  watch 
every  trembling  movement  of  the  inflated  throat. 

This  loud  and  not  unmusical  trill  is  one  of 
the  earliest  of  spring  sounds,  though  not  so 
early  as  the  peeping  of  the  little  yellow,  or  Pick- 
ering's, tree-frog,  which  opens  the  frog  chorus 
as  soon  as  the  ice  has  gone  out  of  the  swamps, 


A  Turn-Coat  of  the  Woods 

r 

and  sometimes  before ;  and  it  outlasts  the  clamor 
of  all  the  other  frogs  and  toads,  which  grow 
quiet  as  the  hot,  dry  days  of  early  summer  come 
on,  while  our  hyla  sings  away  until  autumn. 
It  is  at  night,  however,  that  he  is  noisiest,  for  it 
is  then  he  is  most  awake  and  busy,  especially 
when  it  is  wet.  His  skin,  despite  its  thick  and 
rough  appearance,  is  exceedingly  sensitive  to 
changes  in  the  atmosphere,  and  he  is  a  fairly 
trustworthy  prophet  of  rain.  It  is  said  that 
the  German  peasants  sometimes  keep  them  in 
captivity,  so  as  to  know  when  it  will  be  safe  to 
go  to  picnics ;  at  any  rate,  let  a  damp,  rainy  day 
come  in  July  or  August,  and  the  air  is  at  once 
filled  with  the  "  croaks "  of  their  loquacious 
race,  whether  in  rejoicing  or  distress  it  is  hard 
to  say — the  former,  I  guess.  It  is  an  old  saying 
that  tree-frogs  crawl  up  to  the  branches  of  trees 
before  a  change  in  the  weather. 

In  early  spring  the  noise  is  made  mainly  by 
the  males  calling  to  the  females  to  come  down 
with  them  to  the  water-side.  As  soon  as  the 
warm  days  of  late  March  or  early  April  arouse 
these,  as  well  as  other  frogs,  from  dormancy, 
*>§  215  &o 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

their  first  thought  is  of  egg-laying — that  prime 
duty  of  all  wild  creatures.  For  this  purpose 
they,  like  other  frogs,  must  go  to  the  water; 
and  in  April  (or  perhaps  later  in  northerly  lati- 
tudes) they  troop  from  the  woods  down  to  the 
swamps,  ponds  and  muddy  pools  in  order  to 
deposit  their  eggs  under  water.  Swimming  or 
creeping  out  a  little  way  from  shore,  they  at- 
tach their  eggs  singly  or  in  little  clusters  (not 
in  masses  of  jelly,  like  the  big  frogs)  to  a  blade 
of  grass  or  some  other  support  in  shallow  water 
and  leave  them  to  be  hatched  by  the  warmth 
of  the  sun. 

This  happens  usually  inside  of  two  days,  when 
the  cream-colored  tadpoles,  a  quarter  of  an 
inch  long,  struggle  out  of  the  egg  coatings  and 
cling  to  the  grass  stems  by  means  of  a  tempo- 
rary sucker-like  appendage  near  the  mouth, 
steadily  gaining  in  strength,  and  hoping  no 
big  beetle  or  other  dreadful  ogre  will  catch 
them  before  they  grow  able  to  swim.  This  abil- 
ity comes  speedily  with  the  perfection  of  the 
tail,  for  at  first  they  have  no  limbs,  and  breathe 
through  external  tufted  gills  like  a  mud-puppy. 


A  Turn-Coat  of  the  Woods 

r 

In  a  week  or  so,  however,  the  gills  disappear, 
and  a  few  days  later  the  hind  limbs  begin  to 
grow,  progressing  until  even  the  feet  are  per- 
fect by  the  time  the  tadpole  is  a  month  old. 
Another  month  must  elapse,  however,  before  the 
fore-arms  have  pushed  out  from  the  skin  and 
been  perfected,  by  which  time  the  tail  is  short- 
ened and  has  lost  its  leaf -like  shape,  and  the 
hind  feet  have  begun  to  do  a  part  of  the  work  of 
swimming.  The  plumpness  shrinks  to  a  more 
frog-like  form,  and  early  in  July  each  tiny 
froglet,  dragging  a  mere  remnant  of  tail,  be- 
gins to  try  what  he  can  do  with  his  feet  on  shore, 
and  soon  finds  himself  able  to  jump  about  and 
catch  flies  like  an  old  hand.  Then  he  hops  away 
to  the  woods,  climbs  a  tree  or  fence-post,  and  is 
received  into  hyla  society. 

The  family  to  which  this  frog  belongs  (the 
Hylidce)  is  a  numerous  one,  and  has  a  remark- 
able distribution,  a  fact  which  is  commented 
upon  by  Dr.  Hans  Gadow,  as  follows: 

"  To  say  that  this  family  is  cosmopolitan, 
with  the  exception  of  the  African  region,  is 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

literally  true,  but  very  misleading.  There  are 
in  all  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  species,  and 
of  these,  one  hundred  are  Notogaean  [i.  e., 
belong  to  the  Southern  Hemisphere],  one-half 
of  the  whole  number,  or  seventy-five,  being  Neo- 
tropical [South  American]  ;  twenty-three  are 
Central  American,  seven  Antillean,  and  about 
eighteen  are  found  in  North  America.  One 
species,  Hyla  arborea,  extends  over  nearly 
the  whole  Palaearctic  region  [Europe,  Asia], 
and  two  closely  allied  forms  occur  in  Northern 
India  and  Southern  China.  Consequently,  with 
the  exception  of  three  closely  allied  species,  the 
Hylidae  are  either  American  or  Australian.  We 
conclude  that  their  original  home  was  Notogaea, 
and  that  they  have  spread  northwards  through 
Central  and  into  North  America.  The  enor- 
mous moist  and  steamy  forests  of  South  Amer- 
ica naturally  suggest  themselves  as  a  paradise 
for  tree-frogs,  and  it  is  in  this  country,  espe- 
cially in  the  Andesian  and  the  adjoining  Cen- 
tral American  subregions,  that  the  greatest 
diversity  of  generic  and  specific  forms  have 
been  produced.  It  is  all  the  more  remarkable 
that  similar  forest-regions,  like  those  of  Borneo 
and  other  Malay  Islands,  are  absolutely  devoid 
of  Hylidse.  .  .  .  The  various  Hylidae  re- 
sort to  all  kinds  of  modes  of  rearing  their 

*>§  218  £»> 


A  Turn-Coat  of  the  Woods 

r 

broods.  Most  of  them  lay  many  eggs,  up  to 
one  thousand,  in  the  water,  not  coherent  in 
strings,  but  in  clumps ;  others  lay  only  a  few, 
attach  them  to  various  parts  of  the  body,  or, 
as  in  the  genus  Nototrema,  the  female  receives 
them  in  a  dorsal-pouch." 

Of  our  North  American  species,  the  one  we 
are  talking  about  is  the  most  widespread,  occur- 
ring all  over  the  country  east  of  the  dry  plains, 
though  becoming  rare  north  of  the  Great  Lakes. 
It  is  among  the  largest,  too,  being  about  one 
and  one-third  inches  long,  when  fully  grown. 
Its  name  in  classification  is  Hyla  vefsicolor,  or 
the  changeable  hyla,  in  reference  to  its  power 
of  assuming,  upon  all  its  upper  surface,  the 
color  of  what  it  sits  upon.  This  power  is  lim- 
ited, however.  If  the  animal  were  placed  upon 
a  scarlet  or  gilded  or  bright  blue  surface,  it 
would  not  take  those  brilliant  hues,  because  in 
nature  it  never  chooses  or  is  called  upon  to  rest 
against  colors  so  gay  as  these ;  but  it  will  change 
all  the  way  from  dark  green  to  nearly  white,  or 
to  deep  gray  or  reddish  brown,  according  as 
it  finds  itself  among  green  vegetation,  or  on  an 

^219  5» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

old  lichen-covered  fence-rail,  a  moldering  log 
or  variously  colored  barks.  The  one  here  pho- 
tographed was  clinging  to  a  birch  tree,  and  the 
likeness  of  color  in  the  illustration  is  not  the 
mere  sameness  of  printer's  ink,  but  is  a  real 
similarity. 

How  is  this  change  of  color  made?  The  proc- 
ess has  been  carefully  studied  by  Biedermann 
in  the  case  of  the  European  tree-frog,  and  his 
conclusions  apply  to  the  American  species  as 
well.  Gadow  summarizes  the  explanation  of 
the  mechanism  as  follows : 

"  If  we  examine  the  green  skin  of  the  com- 
mon tree-frog,  Hyla  arborea,  under  a  low-power 
and  direct  light,  we  see  a  mosaic  of  green,  polyg- 
onal areas,  separated  by  dark  lines  and  inter- 
rupted by  the  openings  of  the  skin-glands. 
Seen  from  below,  the  skin  appears  black.  Under 
a  stronger  power  the  black  layer  is  seen  to  be 
composed  of  anastomosing  and  ramified  black 
pigment-cells.  When  the  light  shines  through 
the  skin  appears  yellow.  The  epidermis  itself 
is  quite  colorless.  The  mosaic-layer  is  com- 
posed of  polygonal  interference-cells,  each  of 
which  consists  of  a  basal  half  which  is  granular 

*>$  220  £*> 


t 


C.  Lown,  Phot. 

The  Changeable  Tree-frog 


A  Turn-Coat  of  the  Woods 

r 

and  colorless,  while  the  upper  half  is  made  up 
of  yellow  drops.  Sometimes  the  tree-frog  ap- 
pears blackish,  and  if  then  the  black  pigment- 
cells  are  induced  to  contract,  for  instance  by 
warming  the  frog,  it  appears  silver-gray;  in 
this  case  the  pigment  in  the  yellow  drops  is  no 
longer  diffuse,  but  is  concentrated  into  a  round 
lump  lodged  between  the  interstices  of  the  gran- 
ular portions;  the  black  pigment-cells  are  like- 
wise balled  together.  These  black  chromato- 
phores  send  out  numerous  fine  branches,  which 
occasionally  stretch  between  and  around  the 
polygonal  cells.  When  each  of  these  is  quite 
surrounded  and  covered  by  the  black  processes, 
the  frog  appears  black.  On  the  other  hand, 
when  the  black  pigment-cells  withdraw  their 
processes,  shrink  up,  and,  so  to  speak,  retire, 
then  the  light  which  passes  through  the  yellow 
drops  is,  by  interference,  broken  into  green. 

"  Stoppage  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood 
in  the  skin  causes  the  black  chromatophores  to 
contract.  Carbon  dioxide  paralyzes  them  and 
causes  them  to  dilate.  This  is  direct  influence 
without  the  action  of  nerves.  But  stimulation 
of  the  nerve-centers  makes  the  skin  turn  pale. 
Low  temperature  causes  expansion,  high  tem- 
perature contraction,  of  the  chromatophores. 
Hence  hibernating  frogs  are  much  darker  than 

+§  221  &o 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 


they  are  in  summer.  Frogs  kept  in  dry  moss, 
or  such  as  have  escaped  into  the  room  and  dry 
up,  turn  pale,  regardless  of  light  or  darkness, 
probably  owing  to  a  central,  reflex,  nerve- 
stimulus. 

"  Tree-frogs  turn  green  as  a  result  of  the 
contact  with  leaves.  Dark  frogs  will  turn  green 
when  put  into  an  absolutely  dark  vessel  in 
which  there  are  leaves.  This  is  reflex  action, 
and  blinded  specimens  do  the  same.  The  princi- 
pal centers  of  the  nerves  which  control  the  chro- 
matophores  lie  in  the  corpora  bigemina  and  in 
the  optic  thalami  of  the  brain.  When  these 
centers  are  destroyed  the  frog  no  longer 
changes  color  when  put  upon  leaves,  but  if  a 
nerve,  for  instance  the  sciatic,  be  stimulated, 
the  corresponding  portion  of  the  body,  in  this 
case  the  leg,  turns  green.  Rough  surfaces 
cause  a  sensation  which  makes  the  frog  turn 
dark.  .  .  .  Biedermann  concludes  that  the 
*  chromatic  function  of  frogs  in  general  de- 
pends chiefly  upon  the  sensory  impressions  re- 
ceived from  the  skin,  while  that  of  fishes  depends 
upon  the  eye.' 

"  All  this  sounds  very  well,  but  the  observa- 
tions and  experiments  are  such  as  are  usual  in 
physiological  laboratories,  and  frogs,  when  ob- 
served in  their  native  haunts,  or  even  when  kept 

«•$  222  fo> 


A  Turn-Coat  of  the  Woods 

r 

under  proper  conditions,  do  not  always  behave 
as  the  physiologist  thinks  they  should.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  in  many  cases  the  changes  of 
color  are  not  voluntary,  but  reflex  actions.  It 
is  quite  conceivable  that  the  sensation  of  sitting 
on  a  rough  surface  starts  a  whole  train  of  proc- 
esses :  roughness  means  bark,  bark  is  brown, 
change  into  brown;  but  one  and  the  same  tree- 
frog  does  not  always  assume  the  color  of  the 
bark  when  it  rests,  or  even  sleeps,  upon  such  a 
piece.  He  will,  if  it  suits  him,  remain  grass- 
green  upon  a  yellow  stone,  or  on  a  white  window- 
frame.  I  purposely  describe  such  conditions, 
changes,  coincidences  and  discrepancies,  in  vari- 
ous species,  notably  in  Hyla  arborea,  H.  cceru- 
lea,  Rana  temporaries,  Bufo  viridis,  to  show  that 
in  many  cases  the  creature  knows  what  it  is 
about,  and  that  the  eye  plays  a  very  important 
part  in  the  decision  of  what  color  is  to  be 
produced.  The  sensory  impression  received 
through  the  skin  of  the  belly  is  the  same,  no 
matter  if  the  board  be  painted  white,  black,  or 
green,  and  how  does  it  then  come  to  pass  that 
the  frog  adjusts  its  color  to  a  nicety  to  the 
general  hue  or  tone  of  its  surroundings  ?  " 

Whether  or  not  the  little  animal  makes  this 
change  knowingly,   sometimes   doing  it   almost 

*>$  223  5* 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

instantaneously  and  sometimes  gradually,  or 
whether  he  cannot  avoid  the  alteration  of  his 
coat  if  he  wishes  to,  it  serves  to  make  him  almost 
invisible  to  his  enemies,  such  as  birds  and  snakes, 
who  may  easily  overlook  what  seems  nothing 
but  a  knot  or  loose  scale  of  bark.  This  power 
of  hiding  is,  indeed,  his  only  protection,  for  he 
has  no  weapons  of  defense,  and  much  less  agility 
in  escaping  than  have  many  of  his  relatives.  It 
answers  the  purpose  so  well,  however,  that  it  is 
not  surprising  to  find  tree-frogs  exceedingly 
numerous  in  all  parts  of  the  country,  serving 
everywhere  to  keep  down  the  hordes  of  insects 
that  dwell  among  the  foliage  and  on  the  bark 
of  trees  and  bushes,  which  always  threaten  to 
increase  beyond  control. 

In  the  autumn,  when  the  nights  begin  to  grow 
chill,  the  leaves  fade  and  fall,  and  the  short  life 
of  the  insect  world  comes  to  an  end,  these  little 
frogs  grow  quiet,  and,  descending  from  their 
perches  to  the  ground,  seek  a  snug,  warm  berth 
in  which  to  take  their  long  winter  sleep.  Some 
creep  beneath  the  drifting  dead  leaves,  and 
squirm  their  bodies,  tail  foremost,  as  deeply  into 
^224  5» 


A  Turn-Coat  of  the  Woods 

r 

the  loose  loam  of  the  woods  or  garden  as  they 
well  can,  where  their  eyes  close  in  a  drowsiness 
which  so  fills  their  whole  bodies  that  life  practi- 
cally stops  until  the  sun  of  spring  revives  it. 
Others  work  their  way  into  the  dusty  decay  of 
hollow  trees  and  rotten  stumps,  where  they  also 
rest  secure  from  storm  and  trouble,  unless  some 
hungry  mink  or  skunk  may  dig  them  out. 

These  frogs  form  interesting  pets  in  a  fern- 
ery, where  they  will  sometimes  become  so  tame 
that  they  may  be  let  out  and  trusted  to  come 
back ;  and  they  pay  for  their  care  by  devouring 
many  minute,  but  noxious,  insects. 


225 


The  Biggest  Bird's-Nest  and  its 
Maker 


T 


r 

HE  mere  question:  What  bird  builds  the 
biggest  nest?  would  be  an  idle  query  did 
it  not  include  various  other  interesting 
facts  and  considerations.  One  might  reasonably 
argue  that  the  bigger  the  bird  the  bigger  the 
nest,  and  in  a  general  way  this  is  so, — an  eagle 
is,  of  course,  obliged  to  make  a  more  capacious 
receptacle  in  which  to  bestow  its  eggs  and  rear 
its  young  than  is  a  wren.  But  in  a  more  par- 
ticular way  the  rule  does  not  hold.  Birds  of 
similar  size  vary  greatly  in  the  amount  of  nest- 
ing materials  they  gather,  and  in  the  accommo- 
dations generally  which  they  seem  to  require. 
Thus,  to  recur  to  our  house-wren,  though  it  is 
one  of  the  most  diminutive  of  birds,  it  heaps  up 
a  mass  of  twigs  often  three  times  as  large  as 
the  neat,  compact  home  of,  say,  the  cedar-bird, 
whose  body  is  three  times  bigger.  Our  western 
+§  226  £» 


The  Biggest  Bird's-Nest 

r 

magpie  is  little  larger  than  a  jay,  but  its  domed 
castle  of  thorny  twigs  would  fill  a  bushel-bas- 
ket. Then,  too,  the  very  largest  of  all  birds, 
the  ostriches,  make  no  nest  at  all,  in  any  proper 
sense  of  the  word.  The  huge  extinct  ratite 
birds  of  Madagascar  and  New  Zealand  (rela- 
tives of  the  ostrich)  laid  eggs  much  larger  even 
than  those  of  the  moa,  that  of  the  epiornis 
reaching  thirteen  inches  in  length.  One  can 
imagine  the  relatively  vast  capacity  of  the  bed 
required  for  them ;  but  such  beds  were  probably 
nothing  more  than  basin-like  hollows  scraped 
in  the  sand  or  among  the  dead  leaves  carpeting 
the  forest. 

For  similar  reasons  we  ought  not  to  include 
the  heaps  of  decaying  vegetation  thrown  up  by 
the  mound-turkeys  of  Australia  and  neighbor- 
ing islands,  some  of  which  are  six  to  ten  feet  in 
height  and  ten  to  fifteen  feet  in  diameter.  These 
hillocks  of  weeds,  grass  and  leaves,  are  tossed 
together  by  the  birds  by  scratching  backward, 
and  have  a  crater-like  form  at  the  top  in  which 
the  numerous  eggs  are  deeply  buried  in  layers 
and  left  to  be  incubated  by  the  heat  of  the  sun 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

and  of  the  fermentation  of  the  vegetation.  But 
in  most  cases  several  females  work  at  and  use  the 
same  mound,  which  rules  them  out  of  our  con- 
sideration. 

In  absolute  bigness,  the  result  of  the  labor 
of  a  single  pair,  the  foremost  place  (with  one 
exception,  which  I  shall  consider  in  detail  pres- 
ently) belongs  to  the  great  birds  of  prey. 
Gould  long  ago  expressed  the  opinion,  in  his 
"  Birds  of  Australia,"  that  "  the  largest  nest 
known  was  that  of  the  Australian  sea-eagle," 
which  he  said  contained  "  materials  enough  to 
fill  a  small  cart."  The  same  expression  was 
used  by  Wilson,  the  father  of  American  orni- 
thology, in  describing  the  eyries  of  fish-hawks 
along  the  coast  of  southern  New  Jersey.  "  I 
ascended,"  he  says,  "  to  several  of  these  nests 
that  had  been  built  in  from  year  to  year,  and 
found  them  constructed  as  follows :  Externally, 
large  sticks,  from  an  inch  to  an  inch  and  a  half 
in  diameter,  and  two  or  three  feet  in  length, 
piled  to  the  height  of  four  or  five  feet,  and  from 
two  to  three  feet  in  breadth;  these  were  inter- 
mixed with  cornstalks,  seaweed,  pieces  of  Wet 
^f?  228  £»> 


The  Biggest  Bird's-Nest 

r 

turf  in  large  quantities,  mullein-stalks,  and 
lined  with  dry  sea-grass ;  the  whole  forming  a 
mass  very  observable  at  half  a  mile's  distance, 
and  large  enough  to  fill  a  cart,  and  be  no  incon- 
siderable load  for  a  horse." 

Still  more  bulky  nests  are  still  to  be  seen  on 
certain  protected  islands  off  the  eastern  end  of 
Long  Island,  if  recent  reports  have  not  been 
exaggerated. 

These  nests  of  the  American  ospreys,  and  of 
the  foreign  sea-eagles,  are,  however,  subject  to 
a  serious  discount  in  our  present  view,  since 
they  are  occupied  continuously,  and  are  the 
accumulations  of  many  years;  and  while  decay 
and  the  winter  winds  cause  the  loss  annually  of 
a  certain  proportion,  so  much  new  material  is 
added  in  the  way  of  repairs  each  year  as  to 
steadily  increase  the  total  mass.  Our  white- 
headed  eagle  is  a  closely  related  form,  and  its 
nests  sometimes  become  truly  gigantic  through 
continual  occupancy  for  many  years.  Such 
ancestral  eyries  are  known  in  many  parts  of  the 
country.  One  on  the  lake  shore  near  Cleveland, 
Ohio,  had  been  the  home  of  successive  pairs  of 
*$  229  £* 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

eagles  for  a  century  until  recently,  when  the 
old  tree  fell. 

The  biggest  regular  nest  made  by  a  single 
pair  of  birds,  and  used  only  one  season,  is  un- 
doubtedly that  of  a  small  African  wader,  named 
by  the  early  ornithologists  umbrette  (Scopus 
umbretta))  but  popularly  known  in  South 
Africa  as  hammer-kop  (hammer-head).  It  is 
allied  to  the  storks,  yet  is  sufficiently  distinct  to 
be  set  apart  in  a  family  by  itself,  and  is  about 
the  size  of  a  raven,  but  in  shape  and  carriage 
suggests  an  overgrown  sandpiper.  In  color  it 
is  umber  brown,  handsomely  glossed  with  pur- 
plish ;  the  bill  black  and  feet  brown.  The  head 
exhibits  a  thick  crest  of  feathers,  which  may  be 
erected  uprightly,  but  is  usually  carried  hori- 
zontally, balancing  the  long  conical  beak,  and 
so  giving  a  hammer-like  outline  to  the  head  in 
the  side  view. 

It  is  found  in  Madagascar  and  throughout 
most  of  Africa,  wherever  wooded  districts  pre- 
vail ;  and  its  food  consists  of  fish,  reptiles,  frogs, 
worms,  snails,  and  insects,  captured  alive  in 
shallow  water  or  found  dead.  Sir  Harry  Johns- 
*$  230  5» 


The  Biggest  Bird's-Nest 

r 

ton  mentions  that  in  Nyassaland  these  storks  are 
welcome  scavengers ;  and  as  their  flesh  is  utterly 
uneatable,  the  birds  are  not  much  molested  there, 
and  therefore  are  far  from  shy  in  most  places. 
In  South  Africa,  according  to  Layard,  they 
are  regarded  by  the  natives  as  the  agents  of 
witches,  and  hence  are  rarely  injured  for  fear 
of  evil  consequences.  It  is  an  interesting  coin- 
cidence, pointing  to  cunning  wisdom  on  the  part 
of  ancient  ruler-priests,  that  in  tropical  lands 
nearly  all  the  sacred  animals  are  those  which  are 
of  practical  service  locally,  as  scavengers,  or 
destroyers  of  noxious  snakes  and  crocodiles,  or 
in  some  other  way;  and  at  the  same  time  have 
no  particular  worth  as  food.  It  was  a  far-seeing 
sagacity  which  prompted  the  thought  that  the 
best  way  to  preserve  such  animals,  and  so  enjoy 
the  benefit  of  their  work,  was  to  throw  around 
them  the  shield  of  reverence,  which  in  the  savage 
is  superstitious  fear.  In  the  present  case,  never- 
theless, the  association  with  witchcraft  may  sim- 
ply arise  from  the  weird  appearance  and  cries 
of  the  birds,  as  they  circle  in  the  dusk  above  the 
swamps,  where  they  are  likely  to  remain  hid  by 
*$  231  So- 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

(r 

day;  and  from  their  curious  dancing  in  pairs 
or  in  threes  in  lonely  spots. 

if;  The  British  settlers  in  Africa  find  them  rather 
easy  to  tame  and  amusing  as  pets,  except  for 
their  harsh,  quacking  cries.  They  indulge  an 
odd  habit  of  prancing  around  one  another  when 
feeding,  and  occasionally  at  other  times,  as  is 
the  way  of  many  of  the  waders.  Layard  gives 
an  extended  description  of  these  antics. 

Their  time  for  activity  is  mainly  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening  and  early  morning.  "  The 
quaint-looking  umbers,"  remarks  Schweinfurth, 
author  of  "  The  Heart  of  Africa,"  "  which  are 
generally  seen  sitting  solitary  by  the  shady 
swamps  in  the  woods,  were  here  [Dyoor,  Sudan] 
marshaled  along  the  banks  in  flocks  of  twelve 
or  fifteen ;  these  birds,  with  their  ponderous 
crested  heads  pensively  drooping  in  the  noon- 
tide heat,  seemed  in  their  *  somber  weeds  '  rather 
to  belong  to  the  dreary  wastes  of  the  chilly 
North  than  to  the  smiling  grass-plains  of  the 
upper  Nile." 

Now  none  of  these  features  of  structure  or 
habit  would  suggest  that  anything  unusual  in 
*>§  232  fc 


The  Biggest  Bird's-Nest 

I 

the  nest-building  was  to  be  expected;  yet  in 
fact  the  architecture  of  this  bird  is  very  curious 
indeed.  Instead  of  a  scanty  platform  of  loosely 
entangled  sticks  on  some  limb  or  bush-top,  as 
is  the  custom  of  most  storks  and  ibises,  the 
hammer-head  constructs  an  astonishingly  large 
and  elaborate  home  for  its  family.  It  is  a  huge 
composition  of  weeds,  sticks,  etc.,  placed  in  a 
fork  of  a  large,  low  tree,  or  sometimes  in  a  rocky 
cleft,  and  one  examined  by  Layard  measured 
three  yards  long  by  a  yard  and  a  half  across. 
It  is  ordinarily  flat  on  top,  as  figured  by  Holub 
and  Penzeln  in  their  great  work  on  South- 
African  birds,  and  its  roof  will  easily  bear  a 
man's  weight. 

This  massive  bird's  nest  is  entered  by  a  hole 
in  one  side,  only  large  enough  to  admit  the 
owner,  and  contains  three  chambers,  connected 
by  small  openings,  and  lined  with  grass  and 
weed-stems  mixed  with  clay.  "  The  sleeping 
chamber  occupies  the  highest  portion  of  the 
nest,  in  order  to  be  safe  from  floods,  and  in  it, 
upon  a  bed  of  water-plants,  are  laid  the  white 
eggs,  which  are  from  three  to  five  in  number, 
^233  &* 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

and  are  incubated  by  each  parent  in  turn.  The 
middle  chamber  serves  for  the  young  when  they 
are  too  big  for  the  inner  one,  while  the  hall  is 
used  as  a  lookout  station." 

Mr.  Layard  also  says  that  the  birds  are  also 
fond  of  embellishing  their  substantial  home  with 
anything  bright  or  glittering  which  they  may 
pick  up,  as  brass  buttons,  bits  of  pottery, 
bleached  bones  and  the  like.  This  reminds  one  of 
the  similar  fancy  of  the  Australian  bower-birds, 
which  likewise  construct  very  elaborate  homes. 
Where  animals  spend  much  time  and  labor  in 
their  architecture,  they  evidently  feel  a  much 
more  profound  and  lasting  interest  in  their 
habitations  than  do  those  which  form  merely 
hasty  and  temporary  breeding-places. 

It  is  an  entertaining  matter  for  speculation, 
why  this  bird  should  diverge  so  far  from  its 
relatives  in  its  home-making  habits,  and  choose 
to  produce  a  nest  which  is  a  regular  castle  in 
comparison  with  the  ordinary  type.  We  cannot 
see  that  the  hammer-head  is  exposed  to  any 
greater  present  dangers  than  are  its  cousins, 
or  that  it  gains  much  or  anything  from  its 
+$  234  fo> 


The  Biggest  Bird's-Nest 

r 

superior  comforts  and  defenses — that  is,  the 
umbrettes  do  not  seem  to  increase  faster  than 
do  the  other  African  waders.  On  the  contrary, 
they  are  nowhere  numerous,  and  perhaps  as  a 
race  are  on  the  decline. 

The  explanation  of  the  problem  should  no 
doubt  be  sought  in  the  early  history  of  the 
species.  This  bird  is  of  very  ancient  lineage, 
its  anatomy,  which  has  been  specially  investi- 
gated by  Beddard,  showing  many  generalized 
features,  indicating  that  its  history  goes  back 
farther  than  that  of  any  other  species  or  group 
of  its  kind.  In  short,  it  is  the  nearest  remain- 
ing representative  of  an  ancestral  stock  from 
which  herons,  storks  and  ibises  have  branched 
off  and  become  severally  differentiated.  The 
conservatism  it  has  shown  in  organization  may 
have  been  accompanied  by  an  equal  conserva- 
tism of  mind;  and  so  its  peculiar  modern  nest- 
building  is  probably  a  traditional  method  de- 
scended from  a  time  when  it  was  needful  to  make 
so  strong  and  warm  a  nest,  and  which  has  tena- 
ciously been  adhered  to  beyond  a  time  when  it 
ceased  to  be  advantageous. 
^235  $+ 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

Thus,  in  our  search  for  the  biggest  nest,  we 
have  also  discovered  one  of  the  most  ancient 
styles  of  architecture  remaining  among  birds, 
and  have  hit  upon  an  interesting  underlying 
principle  of  natural  history, — a  curious  par- 
allel to  the  history  of  the  opossum  detailed  in 
another  chapter. 


The  Phoebe  at  Home 


DAY  after  day,  in  the  spring,  a  certain 
small  bird  comes  at  intervals  into  the 
top  of  a  half -dead  tree  near  the  house, 
and  sits  there  by  the  half -hour.  It  is  a  demure 
little  figure  in  blended  olive-green  and  brown, 
with  a  large,  dark  head,  and  a  tail  narrowly 
edged  with  white.  It  bears  itself  soberly,  like 
some  dear  old  Quaker  lady  in  plain  rich  silk, 
with  touches  of  lace  here  and  there,  like  the  soft 
edging  of  foam  that  bedecks  the  summer  sea. 
Sometimes  there  are  two,  and  they  sit  very  up- 
right on  the  cleanest  twig,  as  if  they  had  been 
trained,  as  was  the  good  dame  I  have  suggested, 
in  some  prim,  old-fashioned  "  seminary,"  which 
taught  them  that  the  backs  of  chairs  were  not 
for  use  by  the  young ;  and  I  hear  them  calling, 
sometimes  insistently,  sometimes  carelessly,  their 
name,  tswee-zee.  That  is  the  true  pronuncia- 

^237  te» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

tion,  as  nearly  as  I  can  catch  it,  but  my  neigh- 
bors generally  find  that  too  hard,  and  call  the 
bird  phcebe.  More  extraordinary  changes  than 
that  have  taken  place  in  names  from  a  foreign 
language,  as  genealogists  well  know. 

The  family  is  of  fly-catcher  stock,  and  my 
friends  belong  to  the  pewee  branch,  being  own 
cousins  to  the  aristocratic  wood-pewee,  whose 
plaintive  pee-ah-wee  hints  at  decayed  fortunes, 
and  who  holds  himself  aloof.  There  are  various 
other  relatives,  such  as  the  chebec  of  our  gar- 
dens, the  Acadian,  the  olive-sided,  and  other 
woodland  sorts.  All  have  the  family  trait  of 
sitting  very  erect  and  waiting  for  Providence 
to  send  insects  near  enough  to  be  seized  by  a 
quick  dash — their  eyesight  being  microscopi- 
cally keen.  I  have  read  that  the  kingbird  (an- 
other relative)  has  been  seen  to  make  a  dash  of 
more  than  one  hundred  feet  in  order  to  seize  a 
minute  insect  near  the  observer's  face.  Though 
the  phcebe  may  get  much  of  its  food  in  morsels 
too  small  for  us  to  perceive,  and  we  laugh  at  the 
sudden  dash  and  somersault  the  act  requires, 
and  to  hear  the  vicious  snapping  of  the  pincer- 

+$  238  5» 


f  The  Phoebe  at  Home 

r 

like  beak  as  gnats  are  caught  "  on  the  fly,"  it 
sometimes  stoops  at  larger  food,  even  conde- 
scending now  and  then  to  pick  up  a  wriggling 
caterpillar,  or  to  engage  in  a  contest  with  a 
moth  half  as  big  as  itself. 

The  phoebe  is  one  of  the  earliest  birds  to  re- 
turn to  us  from  its  winter  home,  which  may 
have  been  in  Mexico  or  the  West  Indies,  or  per- 
haps not  farther  away  than  North  Carolina. 
It  is  the  latter,  hardier  ones,  no  doubt,  that  are 
boldest  in  following  the  retreating  winter  north- 
ward, so  that  we  often  hear  their  little  song 
before  the  last  snowstorm. 

Now  begins  the  most  entertaining  chapter  of 
phoebe's  history — that  of  its  home-making  and 
home-keeping.  There  is  a  sweetness  of  domes- 
ticity about  the  nesting  and  brooding  of  a  bird 
that  belongs  to  no  other  creature.  The  bees 
make  good  houses,  and  dwell  in  them  and  care 
for  their  offspring  and  for  each  other ;  and  the 
affection  for  their  young  in  the  four-footed  ani- 
mals is  often  striking  and  courageous,  but  the 
suggestion  of  real  home-life  and  happiness  in 
the  ways  of  our  woodland  birds  in  spring  ap- 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

peals  to  the  human  heart  almost  beyond  any- 
thing else  in  nature. 

My  friendly  phoebe  was  the  builder  and  owner 
of  a  nest  made  after  the  old  prehistoric  phoebe 
fashion  on  the  front  of  a  well-shaded  ledge  near- 
by. No  new-fangled  notions  for  her!  She  was 
satisfied  with  the  ways  of  her  forefathers,  and 
expected  her  children  to  abide  by  them.  Her 
home,  then,  was  founded  upon  a  shelf  hardly 
wide  enough  to  hold  it,  above  which  an  over- 
hanging rock  gave  not  only  shelter  from  the 
weather  but  security  against  attack  from  above ; 
and  in  addition  it  was  shadowed  and  hidden  by 
a  mingled  maple  and  shad-bush.  The  face  of 
the  rock  was  rough,  and  on  many  of  its  ledges 
and  projections,  where  a  trifle  of  soil  had  been 
borne  by  the  winds  or  by  trickling  rainwater, 
moss  had  taken  root,  and,  clinging  with  micro- 
scopic fingers,  had  spread  into  irregular  patches. 
To  make  her  home  look  like  one  of  these  had  been 
the  object  of  the  little  architect.  No  bigness 
nor  ostentation  and  needless  ornament  formed  a 
part  of  her  plan.  These  might  do  for  her 
cousins,  the  strong  kingbirds,  or  her  other  cou- 


The  Phoebe  at  Home 

r 

sins,  the  wood-pewees,  who  play  the  fine  lady  in 
the  forest.  Her  idea  was  the  substantial,  the 
inconspicuous,  and  the  safe. 

With  this  in  view,  Mme.  Phoebe  and  her  hus- 
band together,  after  much  interesting  investiga- 
tion and  colloquy,  decided  upon  a  good  spot, 
and  there  the  work  of  the  husband  seemed  to 
end.  Whether  he  is  too  indolent,  or  thinks  it 
infra  dig.,  or  pleases  himself  with  the  notion 
that  he  will  play  soldier  and  defend  the  laborer, 
or  whether  he  is  simply  not  permitted  by  his 
spouse  to  meddle  with  this  important  matter, 
you  may  decide  for  yourself.  At  any  rate, 
Mme.  Phoebe  seems  to  do  all  the  work  alone,  but 
her  mate  entertains  her  now  and  then  by  a  little 
song,  which  is  scarcely  more  than  a  repetition 
of  his  name,  as  fast  as  he  can  chatter,  for  a  min- 
ute or  so  at  a  time.  The  builder  finds  some  spot 
where  moss  is  growing,  plucks  it  up  by  the 
roots,  brings  the  sprays,  with  the  mud  clinging 
to  their  roots,  and  lays  them  in  a  circle  upon  the 
rock,  where  the  material  is  patted  down  by  her 
feet  until  its  sticks.  If  the  shelf  is  wide  enough 
a  complete  circle  is  laid,  and  as  more  is  laid  and 
<•$  241  $& 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

patted  down  on  top,  a  bowl  is  presently  built; 
but  generally  she  likes  to  set  the  structure  in  a 
corner,  or  against  the  wall,  and  then  it  becomes 
a  half  or  three-quarters  circle. 

Several  days  are  consumed  in  this  operation, 
but  not  much  work  is  done  except  in  the  morn- 
ing, leaving  the  new  material  to  dry  during  the 
afternoon.  She  works  slowly  and  carefully, 
too,  spending  many  minutes,  at  times,  in  tram- 
pling down  the  wet  moss  with  her  feet,  pushing 
it  with  her  breast  to  make  the  cavity  of  just  the 
right  size  and  fitness,  and  arranging  and  rear- 
ranging the  sprays  with  her  bill,  delightedly 
loitering  about  her  work  like  any  other  happy 
young  home-maker.  If  not  enough  mud  clings 
to  the  roots  of  the  moss,  she  brings  more,  in 
pellets,  and  uses  it  as  extra  mortar.  Finally, 
when  she  has  erected  the  rim  so  high  that  it  will 
conceal  all  of  her  body  except  head  and  tail  (as 
she  sits  upon  her  eggs),  she  lines  it  with  a  bed- 
ding of  horsehair,  to  lift  the  eggs  above  the  chill 
and  dampness  of  the  adobe  walls  and  base. 
Meanwhile  the  hardy  moss,  rooted  in  the  nest, 
lives  and  keeps  green  and  hangs  down  in  tufts, 

+§  242  £o> 


The  Phoebe  at  Home 

r 

so  that  the  resemblance  of  the  nest  to  any  of  the 
many  patches  of  naturally  growing  moss  about 
it  is  nearly  complete,  and  the  architect's  attempt 
at  concealment  by  this  likeness  is  entirely  suc- 
cessful. It  seems  the  more  so  when,  as  fre- 
quently happens,  the  bird  avoids  the  use  of  any 
ledge,  along  which  a  mouse  or  weasel  or  snake 
might  possibly  creep,  upon  eggs  intent,  and 
plasters  her  dwelling,  in  the  form  of  a  heavy 
bracket,  right  upon  the  face  of  the  rock,  where 
it  clings  by  the  cohesive  force  of  mud,  mingled 
with  the  moss  and  other  fibrous  ingredients. 

Thus  far  one  might  say  that  the  phoebe  showed 
great  intelligence,  but  it  is  worth  while  exam- 
ining whether  that  is  really  a  good  word  to  use, 
if  by  "  intelligence  "  is  meant  conscious  adapta- 
tion of  means  to  an  end.  It  is  probably  safe  to 
say  that  this  method  is  a  departure  from  the 
more  ordinary  tree-nesting  habit  practiced  by 
its  relatives  rather  than  that  it  alone  represents 
an  original  style  from  which  all  the  rest  have  de- 
parted. It  secures  more  safety  by  greater  inac- 
cessibility, at  the  expense  of  using  much  mud 
and  also  at  the  expense  of  far  greater  labor 
*>$  243  &* 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

than  is  required  by  the  ordinary  stick  or  grass- 
built  home.  Its  resemblance  to  a  patch  of  moss 
is  an  accidental  result  of  the  use  of  such  mate- 
rials, but  the  effect  of  this  is  so  good  that 
natural  selection  seems  to  have  nearly  perfected 
the  tendency  to  the  exclusive  use  of  moss. 

The  mud,  of  course,  is  a  mortar  needed  to 
hold  the  nest  in  place  when  it  is  bracketed 
against  the  face  of  a  rock,  which  may  be  consid- 
ered the  typical  situation,  but  it  is  rarely  needed 
when  the  nest  rests  upon  a  ledge  or  other  flat 
surface,  as  it  often  does;  yet  the  birds  seem 
rarely  to  spare  themselves  labor  in  that  case — 
though  now  and  then  a  nest  will  be  found  with 
very  little  mud  and  composed  of  miscellaneous 
materials. 

Thus  far  I  have  been  dealing  only  with  the 
primitive  style  of  nest,  in  the  wilderness.  But 
this  bird  has  been  one  of  the  first  to  attach  itself 
to  mankind,  as  settlements  advanced  into  the 
interior,  and  to  make  use  of  his  structures.  Its 
greatest  anxiety,  apparently,  in  choosing  a 
nesting-site  was  to  find  one  beneath  a  shelter, 
so  that  the  rain  should  not  dampen  and  chill  the 
<*$  244  5o» 


The  Phoebe  at  Home 

r 

mud,  or  perhaps  dissolve  it,  and  so  ruin  the  nest 
completely.  When  men  came  to  their  locality 
and  began  to  build  houses  and  sheds  and  bridges, 
the  phoebes  instantly  perceived  the  advantage 
their  roofs  and  covering  afforded,  and  straight- 
way began  to  occupy  nesting-sites  beneath  them. 
Barns  they  seem  rarely  to  have  entered,  perhaps 
because  the  pugnacious  swallows  always  drove 
them  away ;  but  carriage-sheds,  isolated  and 
unfrequented  buildings,  like  boat-houses  and 
sugar-camps,  were  and  are  quickly  seized  upon, 
and  in  many  a  rural  house  to-day  a  pair  of 
phones  is  a  regular  summer  accompaniment  in 
some  corner  beneath  the  porch-roof.  Bridges 
they  are  especially  fond  of,  finding  in  the  stone 
abutments  a  semblance  to  their  natural  cliffs, 
with  an  admirable  roof  in  the  bridge  floor ;  but 
they  often  choose  to  put  the  nest,  even  there,  on 
the  upper  surface  of  a  beam  or  girder,  perhaps 
just  beneath  the  planks  of  the  rattling  roadway. 
So  constant  and  peculiar  is  this  custom  that  in 
many  parts  of  the  country  the  bird  is  known  as 
the  "  bridge  pewee."  Abandoned  and  broken 
down  old  houses,  especially  the  stone  ones  so 

*$  245  £»> 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

common  in  the  Hudson  Valley,  are  almost  always 
inhabited  by  the  phcebe,  too,  and  the  basement 
or  cellar  seems  to  be  preferred,  no  matter  how- 
dark.  In  such  places  they  are  not  shy,  and  will 
let  you  make  a  close  acquaintance  with  their  life. 
Now  in  this  association  with  man,  and  in  these 
improved  situations,  which  have  been  occupied 
in  the  older  districts  by  succeeding  generations 
of  phoebes  for  one  or  two  hundred  years,  the 
birds  seem  to  have  changed  their  style  of  nest- 
building  in  only  one  particular,  though  they 
occasionally  pick  up  civilized  material,  such  as 
strings,  tufts  of  wool,  straws,  etc. ;  the  one  par- 
ticularly referred  to  is  the  now  prevalent  use 
of  horsehair  as  lining,  where  they  must  have 
employed  fine  grass  before  horses  came  into  the 
country.  This  novelty,  however,  is  a  disad- 
vantage, for  it  causes  the  nests  to  become  so 
overrun  with  vermin  that  it  is  said  the  young 
are  sometimes  worried  to  death  by  the  excess  of 
it.  This  would  prevent  the  use  of  the  nest  for 
the  second  brood,  which  the  early-breeding  spe- 
cies almost  always  raises ;  but  it  frequently  hap- 
pens that  a  second  nest  is  built  upon  the  top  of 

*$  246  £o» 


C.  Lown,  Phot. 


Phoebe's  Nest 


This  nest  was  on  a  beam  in  the  basement  of  a  half-ruined 
stone  house  ;  and  the  white-edged  tail  of  the  brooding 
bird  is  seen  over  the  edge  of  the  mossy  structure 


The  Phoebe  at  Home 

r 

the  first,  or  close  beside  it.  I  once  found  six 
nests  in  a  row,  touching  one  another,  on  a  pro- 
tected ledge  of  rocks  in  a  lonely  part  of  West 
Virginia,  some  of  which  may  have  been  for  sec- 
ond broods,  though  most  of  them,  no  doubt, 
were  the  work  of  successive  seasons. 

But  in  general  the  heavy,  laboriously  built 
mud  and  fiber  bowl  or  bracket  will  be  found  in 
the  most  concealed  and  well-covered  situations, 
where  a  very  slight  open  structure  would  have 
sufficed  for  all  purposes,  as  well  as  in  a  com- 
pletely exposed  place,  and  the  green  coating  of 
moss  is  maintained  there,  where  it  is  of  no  pro- 
tective service,  as  carefully  as  on  the  wild  crags. 
Moreover,  it  often  happens  that  in  such  circum- 
stances the  moss  is  worse  than  useless — it  posi- 
tively draws  attention  to  the  bird's  home.  A 
notable  instance  came  under  my  observation  last 
summer,  when  I  found  a  beautiful  example  of 
the  bracket-nest  affixed  to  the  white-plastered 
wall  inside  a  ruined  house  in  Ulster  County, 
N.  Y.,  and  this  year  a  new  nest  surmounted  it. 
Here  the  green  moss  was  the  very  opposite  of 
protective — it  attracted  the  eye  instantly.  This 
^247  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

I 

illustrates  one  of  the  reasons  why  it  is  not  fair 
to  speak  of  the  bird's  "  intelligence  "  in  appar- 
ently concealing  its  cliff-built  home  by  a  coating 
of  living  moss. 

Indeed,  one  wonders  at  the  bird's  stupidity 
sometimes  as  much  as  its  cleverness.  A  marked 
characteristic,  belonging,  more  or  less,  to  all 
birds,  is  its  love  of  locality,  and  enjoyment  of 
placing  its  home  as  near  as  possible  to  the  place 
it  lived  in  the  season  before.  A  rural  railway 
station  of  stone  that  I  know  has  been  resorted  to 
for  years  by  phoebes,  presumably  the  same  pair, 
who  almost  always  build  on  a  projecting  stone 
about  four  inches  below  the  crowning  timber 
that  supports  the  roof  of  the  porch.  Two 
years  ago  their  nest  was  knocked  down  there 
by  one  of  the  bad  boys  who  are  the  pest  of  all 
villages,  and  the  birds  hunted  up  a  new  site. 
They  fixed  upon  a  projection  of  the  wall  on  the 
other  side  of  the  building,  and  a  new  nest  was 
begun.  This  stone,  however,  was  fully  fourteen 
inches  below  the  timber  that  had  formerly  lim- 
ited the  height  of  their  nest,  and  the  foolish 
birds,  apparently  thinking  it  needful  to  carry 

*>$  248  £•» 


The  Phoebe  at  Home 

r 

their  work  up  to  that  familiar  level,  heaped  up 
no  less  than  fourteen  inches  of  foundation  be- 
fore they  made  a  cup  and  lined  it  for  the  eggs. 
Such  facts  as  these,  among  many  that  are 
known  to  students,  seem  to  be  interesting  as 
showing  the  traditional  character  and  limita- 
tions of  bird  intelligence  as  applied  to  nest- 
building. 


249 


The  Haymakers  of  the  Snow 
Peaks 

r 

WHEN  one,  in  climbing  almost  any 
of  the  great  mountains  that  stand, 
range  behind  range,  between  the 
plains  and  the  Pacific  coast,  comes  out  above 
the  woods  upon  the  naked  slopes  and  crags  of 
the  summit,  he  has  reached  a  new  world,  and  one 
whose  attractiveness  grows  with  longer  acquain- 
tance. One's  first  walk  above  timber-line,  how- 
ever, will  be  likely  to  set  his  curiosity  on  edge 
to  account  for  innumerable  keen,  bleating  cries, 
which  seem  to  come  now  from  the  rocks  beneath 
his  feet,  then  from  the  wonderfully  clear  and 
silent  air,  or  from  near  and  far  to  the  right  and 
to  the  left. 

Pausing  in  silence  and  looking  intently  about 
him,  in  an  effort  to  solve  the  mystery,  the  ex- 
plorer's eye  will  presently  detect  a  movement, 
as  if  a  shadow  flitted  across  the  scant  sod,  or  a 


The  Haymakers  of  the  Snow  Peaks 

r 

piece  of  rock  itself  had  moved;  by  and  by,  if 
alert  to  this  suggestion,  his  eye  will  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  small  creature,  so  near  the  color 
of  the  stones,  as  to  seem  a  part  of  them,  and 
then  of  another  and  another,  until,  if  one  remain 
quiet,  a  score  may  come  into  sight.  Gaining 
confidence  they  will  begin  scuttling  about,  sit 
up  like  tiny  poodles,  and  squeak  out  their  small 
yet  wonderfully  resonant  cry,  with  outstretched 
necks  and  jerking  heads  like  the  barking  of  a 
toy  dog.  Let  the  rambler  make  a  noise  or  mo- 
tion, however,  and  every  squeaker  will  disappear 
as  if  by  magic,  and  every  sound  will  cease. 

These  curious  animals  are  pikas, — queer  lit- 
tle degenerate  hares  which  the  miners  and  hunt- 
ers happily  call  "  conies."  They  do  certainly 
resemble  in  habits  the  conies  of  Africa, — those 
described  in  proverbs  as  "  feeble  folk "  which 
"  make  their  houses  in  the  rocks  "  ;  but  in  struc- 
ture they  are  far  away,  and  in  reality  are  much 
nearer  relatives  of  the  rabbits,  or  of  the  guinea- 
pigs,  whose  wild  brethren  still  dwell  among  the 
pumice  and  lava  of  the  Bolivian  Andes.  They 
look,  indeed,  much  like  guinea-pigs,  being  about 
+§  251  5* 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

the  same  size,  having  the  same  blunt  nose,  squat, 
rotund  form,  and  small,  creeping  feet.  Their 
ears  are  round,  set  close  to  the  head  and  rimmed 
with  white,  and  they  have  almost  no  tails  at  all. 
The  varied  colors  of  guinea-pigs  are  due  to  their 
long  domestication,  and  the  pikas  do  not  re- 
semble them  in  that  respect,  but  are  grayish 
above  and  yellowish-white  on  the  lower  parts. 
Most  of  the  mountain  animals  may  go  down 
into  the  protection  of  the  forests  when  autumnal 
storms  begin  to  blanket  the  peaks  with  snow,  but 
some  cannot  get  away.  The  siffleur,  or  moun- 
tain woodchuck,  no  longer  sounds  the  wild,  clear 
whistling  that  seems  the  voice  of  the  mountain 
spirit,  so  eerie  and  disembodied  is  it,  but,  heavy 
with  fatness,  lounges  into  his  snug  burrow  and 
goes  to  sleep.  The  few  squirrels,  mice  and 
shrews,  that  dwell  along  the  upper  borders  of 
the  timber,  seek  warm  retreats  prepared  in  ad- 
vance ;  the  bears  no  longer  climb  the  rocks,  and 
even  the  white  goat,  whose  favorite  resting- 
place  has  been  the  middle  of  a  glacial  snow-field, 
now  seeks  some  sheltered  ravine-head  for  a  win- 
ter hospice.  Very  few  four-footed  animals 
^252  £» 


The  Haymakers  of  the  Snow  Peaks 

r 

bravely  keep  their  residence  while  winter  as- 
saults and  holds  the  icy  heights.  One  of  these 
is  our  little  friend  the  pika;  the  other  a  neigh- 
bor of  his,  the  sewellel,  a  creature  much  like  a 
dimunitive  beaver,  but  one  which  never  takes 
to  the  water  nor  builds  a  dam,  and  has  in  place 
of  a  tail  like  a  mason's  trowel  one  like  a  very 
small  and  scanty  whisk-broom.  I  shall  have 
more  to  say  of  him  presently. 

In  no  season  is  the  Alpine  world  more  entic- 
ing than  in  early  autumn.  A  carpet  of  exqui- 
site late  flowers  is  spread  upon  the  softer 
ground:  they  are  the  same  that  in  the  valleys 
sway  upon  tall  stems,  but  here  form  a  mat  close 
in  the  earth,  for  in  the  short  summer  of  these 
heights  nature  has  no  time  to  waste  on  making 
stems  and  leaves.  The  slopes  and  ridges  just 
above  the  dwarf  trees  that  mark  the  limit  of 
forest  growth,  are  golden  with  ripened  grass; 
and  the  bared  crags  overhead  glitter  upon  their 
edges,  but  are  richly  purple  in  shadow.  The 
sunshine  is  yellow  and  mellow,  and  an  opalescent 
mist  veils  the  peaks,  near  and  remote,  which 
shine  in  it  like  the  ruins  of  mighty  shells,  nbw 

^253  5» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

silvery  white,  now  palest  blue,  now  rosy,  and 
over  all  arches  a  perfect  sky. 

In  this  delicious  weather,  as  you  stroll  about 
these  gable-ends  of  the  roof  of  the  world,  you 
constantly  come  upon  bouquets  of  flowers,  their 
stems  all  one  way,  laid  side  by  side  on  some 
warm  rock,  and  you  wonder  who  has  picked  and 
arranged  them  so  carefully  yet  left  them  to 
wither ;  and  then  you  begin  to  see  little  heaps  of 
grass  and  weeds  standing  in  the  sun  and  turn- 
ing yellow  and  dry  under  its  long,  hot  beams. 
There  may  be  scores  or  hundreds  of  them. 

If  your  curiosity  led  to  observation  you  would 
presently  discover  that  these  were  near  the  home 
of  a  colony  of  pikas,  which  lived  in  the  loose 
slide-rock,  finding  their  way  in  winding  galleries 
far  into  its  interior,  where  each  family  had  a 
snug  nest  in  some  convenient  hollow,  and  that 
these  heaps  of  drying  vegetation — tiny  hay- 
stacks— were  the  gathered  material  of  their  win- 
ter stores. 

They  do  not,  like  the  whistlers,  pass  the  win- 
ter in  torpid  sleep,  nor  is  it  possible  for  them 
cither  to  seek  or  find  any  forage  during  the 
+§  254  £•» 


The  Haymakers  of  the  Snow  Peaks 

r 

cold  season.  Hence  they  must  lay  up  stores, 
and  plentiful  ones.  In  this  duty  they  show  not 
only  great  industry,  but  much  sagacity,  the 
former  being  required,  indeed,  by  the  latter,  for 
their  harvest  is  a  short  and  precarious  one. 
They  must  not  cut  the  grasses  and  flowering 
weeds  too  early,  for  then  the  juices  are  still 
copious  in  the  stalks,  and  these  would  heat  and 
ferment  the  plants  when  piled  up,  causing  them 
to  rot  instead  of  to  "  cure."  They  dare  not 
wait  too  long,  for  fear  the  plants  may  shed  their 
nutritious  seeds  and  wither,  or  even  be  lost  alto- 
gether beneath  burying  snows  or  destructive 
gales.  Hence  it  is  an  evidence  of  much  judg- 
ment and  great  activity  on  the  part  of  these 
little  husbandmen  that  they  are  able  to  meet 
their  requirements  in  the  brief  season — only 
a  fortnight  or  so  in  later  September — allowed 
them  by  their  climate  and  circumstances.  Dur- 
ing this  short  harvest-time  the  pikas  make  their 
hay,  stack  it  up  in  the  sun  to  cure,  and,  when  it 
is  thoroughly  dry,  but  not  decayed,  take  it  into 
their  barns  beneath  the  stones  and  store  it  as 
food  for  the  long  winter jto.  come. 

+$  "255'  3» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

In  doing  this  they  keep  a  sharp  eye  upon  the 
weather,  in  respect  to  which  they  seem  to  have 
remarkable  foreknowledge.  The  pikas  of  Rus- 
sia, which  have  much  the  same  habit,  but  exist 
lower  down  on  the  mountain  sides,  so  that  they 
are  better  known  to  the  people,  are  called  by  the 
peasants  "  weather  wisers  "  and  are  depended 
upon  as  living  barometers.  The  same  faculty 
belongs  to  our  "  little  chief,"  as  the  Northern 
Indians  call  him,  and  he  turns  it  to  good  ac- 
count. 

Some  day  the  barometer  at  your  mountain 
camp  will  begin  falling,  although  otherwise  no 
sign  of  bad  weather  disturbs  the  serenity  of  the 
heights.  But  you  will  notice  a  sudden  excite- 
ment and  great  activity  on  the  part  of  your 
squeaking  little  friends  among  the  rocks.  All 
the  afternoon,  braving  your  presence  with  un- 
wonted courage,  they  will  toil  at  their  work  of 
carrying  in  their  provender,  and,  though  usu- 
ally they  go  to  bed  at  sunset,  to-night  you  will 
hear  them  bleating  and  calling  to  one  another 
as  they  hasten  their  harvesting  until  far  into 
the  night.  Before  morning  gales  and  snow  ami 
*$  256  5» 


••>  o 


o 

-(— 1 
•  I— I 

d 

PH 


The  Haymakers  of  the  Snow  Peaks 

r 

sleet  will  envelop  the  mountain,  the  first  patrol 
of  winter  attacking  it  with  a  fierceness  that 
seems  an  assault  by  all  the  boreal  hosts.  But 
whether  you  be  prepared  or  not,  the  pikas  have 
not  been  caught  napping!  Their  provender  is 
all  safe  in  the  underground  barns. 

An  odder  and  less  known  animal,  living  near 
timber-line  in  the  Coast  ranges  of  Oregon  and 
northward,  is  the  one  introduced  to  us  a  century 
ago  by  Lewis  and  Clark  as  the  "  sewellel," — a 
name  which  involved  one  of  those  errors  so 
easily  and  frequently  made  by  explorers.  It 
appears  that  the  Chinook  Indian's  name  for  the 
animal  itself  was  o-gwool-lal,  but  they  called  a 
robe  made  of  its  skins  she-wal-lal,  corrupted 
into  "  sewellel."  That  is,  Lewis  and  Clark  mis- 
took the  name  of  the  garment  for  that  of  the 
animal.  The  Nisquallies,  living  along  the  shores 
of  Puget  Sound,  called  it  showt'l,  as  may  be 
seen  in  some  of  our  older  books;  and  the  white 
trappers  soon  dubbed  the  animal  "  mountain 
beaver,"  which  was  much  closer  to  the  truth 
than  their  names  usually  were. 

In  fact  it  is  nearer  to  the  beaver  than  to  any 
^257  £» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

other  animal  in  structure,  but  is  so  generalized 
that  some  paleontologists  believe  it  represents, 
better  than  any  other  existing  species,  the  an- 
cestral  type  from  which  the  varied  tribes  of 
squirrels  and  squirrel-like  rodents  have  de- 
scended. It  stands  in  a  group  of  its  own, — the 
Haplodontia. 

The  sewellel  is  about  the  size  of  a  muskrat, 
and  reddish-brown  in  color,  with  a  very  short, 
brush-shaped  tail,  very  small  eyes,  and  a 
Warm,  close  fur,  of  which  the  Indians  made  much 
use,  as  also  they  did  of  that  of  the  pika,  the 
women  fashioning  baby-clothes  and  winter  un- 
dergarments by  stitching  together  these  delicate 
pelts,  as  well  as  making  of  them  blanket-like 
robes.  All  the  mountain  Indians  are  (or  used 
to  be)  very  fond  of  its  flesh;  and  Dr.  George 
Suckley,  one  of  the  earliest  naturalists  to  in- 
vestigate the  fauna  of  the  Columbia  Valley, 
roasted  one  and  "  found  it  excellent,  tasting 
much  like  chicken." 

They  are  shy  and  cunning,  however,  and  now- 
adays, at  any  rate,  are  trapped  only  with  much 
difficulty;  when  chased  by  dogs,  they  fight  so 
^258  £•» 


The  Haymakers  of  the  Snow  Peaks 

r 

well  as  to  make  a  very  respectable  antagonist 
to  the  average  terrier. 

The  sewellels  live  in  wet  places,  where  the 
ground  is  soft,  rich  and  overrun  with  rank 
vegetation,  "  preferably,"  writes  Dr.  Merriam, 
"  in  springy,  sloping  ground,  where  their  in- 
numerable burrows  are  kept  wet  by  the  cold, 
trickling  water."  In  fact,  settlers  complain 
that  their  burrows  often  start  bad  washouts  in 
the  hillsides,  especially  in  clover-fields,  a  plant 
of  which  they  are  as  fond  as  are  the  woodchucks. 
In  such  places  they  often  exist  in  a  numerous 
colony  whose  underground  passages  are  con- 
nected in  a  neighborly  way;  and  early  in  the 
morning  a  dozen  or  so  may  often  be  seen  sit- 
ting at  the  entrances  to  their  subterranean 
homes,  and  "  whistling  like  prairie  dogs,"  as 
one  writer  puts  it.  Long  ago  the  Oregon  people 
named  them  "  boomers,"  in  reference  to  the  hol- 
low tone  of  their  voices. 

These  little  folks,  like  the  pikas  and  beavers 
of  which  they  remind  us,  must  store  winter  sup- 
plies, and  in  the  late  summer  "  they  cut  various 
plants,  commonly  rank  or  woody  kinds,  which 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

they  gather  and  carry  in  bundles  to  their  bur- 
rows or  to  places  near  by,  where  they  spread 
them  out  to  dry."  They  will  climb  a  small  bush 
some  distance  in  order  to  cut  off  the  tender  up- 
per twigs.  These  provisions  vary  with  the  local- 
ity, and  what  is  there  available.  Twigs  of  thim- 
ble-berry, mountain-ash,  salal,  willow  and  other 
shrubs,  whose  bark  they  find  edible,  are  common 
in  the  stacks ;  but  most  of  all  they  gather  brake- 
ferns,  sometimes  a  bushel  or  more  in  a  single 
heap  over  or  close  to  the  principal  mouth  of 
the  burrow.  After  these  have  been  thoroughly 
dried  and  cured  in  the  sun  they  are  dragged 
into  the  innermost  burrows,  and  used  to  sustain 
the  very  simple  requirements  of  a  life  reduced 
to  inertness  by  having  very  little  to  do  or  think 
about  during  the  long  months  of  imprisonment 
by  cold  and  snow.  They  are  very  fat  and 
sleek  when  they  go  in  in  the  fall,  but  look  decid- 
edly seedy  when  they  reappear  in  the  spring. 

How  completely  the  showt'ls  hibernate  it  is 

hard  to  determine:  probably  more  than  do  the 

conies,  and  apparently  far  more  than  do  their 

neighbors  of  the  upper  edge  of  the  woods, — 

^260  So* 


The  Haymakers  of  the  Snow  Peaks 

r 

the  Sierra  pocket-gophers.  Where  the  latter 
are  numerous,  as  on  the  higher  slopes  of  Mount 
Shasta,  you  may  see,  when  the  snow  has  gone 
off  in  the  spring,  hundreds  of  little  cake-like 
elevations  of  soil  which  have  been  pushed  up 
underneath  its  crystal  covering.  These  de- 
posits show  that  all  winter  these  small  but  hardy 
ground-squirrels  are  burrowing  about  beneath 
the  frost  in  search  of  tuberous  roots  and  other 
food,  and  every  now  and  then  have  poked  their 
heads  above  ground  to  push  the  earth  out  of 
some  newly  bored  tunnel,  or  to  investigate  the 
condition  of  the  world  and  the  progress  of 
events. 


261 


A  Kitten  at  School 

r 

THE  "back  yard"  of  a  metropolitan 
house  does  not  afford  much  material  for 
natural  history  study,  except,  perhaps, 
to  the  insect  hunter;  but  I  have  been  amused 
and  interested  in  watching  the  education  and 
recreation  of  a  kitten  which  is  going  on  in 
my  neighbor's  little  area. 

It  has  all  been  seen  before,  no  doubt,  a  thou- 
sand times;  but  it  struck  me  that  not  many 
young  animals  had  so  much  fun  mixed  up  with 
their  schooling  as  a  kitten  gets.  Its  school  is, 
in  fact,  a  sort  of  kindergarten.  This  old  cat 
plays  with  her  kitten  in  the  most  patient  way, 
when,  I  have  no  doubt,  she'd  much  rather  be 
quietly  asleep  on  the  warm  flagstone  by  the 
kitchen  window. 

Now  few  animals  do  that.  The  youngsters 
of  all  sorts  frolic  by  themselves.  I  have  seen 
a  family  of  four  wolf-pups  rollicking  at  the 
<•*£  262  £» 


A  Kitten  at  School 

r 

door  of  their  rocky  den  in  the  Green  River  sand- 
hills of  Wyoming,  exactly  as  you  may  see  a 
parcel  of  small  dogs  scrambling  over  one  an- 
other and  pretending  to  bite.  Most  adult  beasts 
have  some  sense  of  humor,  and  many  a  large 
degree  of  playfulness.  Who  that  has  ever 
watched  the  monkeys  in  Central,  or  Schenley,  or 
Lincoln  parks,  or  in  any  other  menagerie,  can 
doubt  that  ?  Squirrels  spend  much  of  their  time 
in  pure  play,  as  do  all  agile  animals.  But  the 
instances  are  rare,  as  I  have  said,  where  the 
old  ones  seek  to  amuse  the  young,  or  join  in 
with  them  in  real  sport. 

I  remember  once  lying  upon  the  brink  of  a 
very  lofty  cliff,  in  northern  Wyoming,  watch- 
ing for  an  hour  or  two  the  extraordinary  agility 
and  jollity  of  a  lot  of  bighorn  kids.  They 
were  racing  up  and  down  steep  snowbanks, 
leaping  over  and  dodging  each  other  among  the 
rocks  like  children  playing  tag,  while  the  old 
rams  and  ewes  lay  curled  up  in  dry  spots,  or 
fed  quietly  upon  the  fresh  herbage  of  the  alpine 
meadow,  without  paying  the  least  attention  to 
the  games. 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

But  my  neighbor's  tabby  is  evidently  of  the 
opinion  that  all  work  and  no  play  will  make  of 
her  Jack  a  dull  cat ;  and  there  is  no  room  in  the 
city  of  New  York  for  a  dull  cat !  Its  wits  must 
be  as  sharp  as  its  claws  ;  it  must  be  armed  cap-a- 
pie,  so  to  speak,  if  it  is  to  hold  its  own  in  the 
nocturnal  competition  of  the  back  fence.  What 
but  the  brightest  wits  would  enable  a  cat  to  do 
as  the  one  in  the  following  story,  related  by 
Romanes,  did? 

An  English  family  had  been  accustomed  dur- 
ing a  season  of  severe  cold  to  throw  crumbs 
from  the  breakfast-table  to  the  birds,  and  pres- 
ently their  cat  got  into  the  habit  of  waiting  in 
ambush,  in  the  expectation  (often  realized)  of 
obtaining  a  hearty  meal  from  one  or  two  of  the 
assembled  sparrows.  After  a  time  the  servant 
neglected  the  practice  of  throwing  out  the 
crumbs,  whereupon  the  cat  was  observed  by  sev- 
eral persons  to  get  crumbs  and  scatter  them 
on  the  grass  with  the  obvious  intention  of  entic- 
ing the  birds  anew.  Dr.  Romanes  says  he  has 
no  reason  to  doubt  the  accuracy  of  this  narra- 
tive; and  furnishes  in  corroboration  other  simi- 
-•$264  So* 


A  Kitten  at  School 

r 

lar  incidents,  in  one  of  which  a  cat  scratched 
up  and  laid  upon  the  surface  decoy-crumbs  that 
had  been  concealed  by  a  slight  fall  of  new  snow. 

Only  two  blocks  away  from  where  I  write 
there  lived  until  recently  a  tomcat  of  great 
size  and  marked  intelligence,  who  once  saved  the 
house  from  burglary,  by  recognizing  the  in- 
truder as  a  stranger  improperly  in  the  house, 
and  thereupon  making  such  a  rumpus  as  to 
arouse  the  family.  "  If  left  in  the  yard,"  says 
an  account  of  him  in  the  New  York  Times, 
"  this  smart  animal  would  not  stand  at  the  door 
and  mew,  as  most  cats  would,  but  always  reached 
up,  and  with  his  fore  paws  turned  the  doorknob 
and  passed  into  the  house." 

The  comprehension  of  mechanical  appliances 
like  that  is  often  seen  in  cats.  I  have  read  of 
one  that  quickly  learned  to  open  a  hinged  win- 
dow that  was  fastened  with  a  swivel  catch. 
Many  instances  are  recorded  of  cats  opening 
doors  by  springing  upon  the  thumb  latch.  But 
success  here  involves  more  than  the  mere  de- 
pressing of  the  thumb-piece  of  the  latch,  al- 
though this  act  alone  shows  close  observation 
<*$  265  £•» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

and  reasoning  on  the  part  of  the  animal;  for 
the  cat  at  once  discovers  that  it  must,  by 
scratching  with  its  hind  feet  against  the  posts, 
or  by  throwing  its  weight  against  the  door, 
push  the  door  far  enough  to  prevent  the  latch 
falling  into  the  guard  again,  if  it  expects  to 
accomplish  its  object.  A  good  many  smart  cats 
have  "  caught  on  "  to  the  fact  that  the  ringing 
of  a  door-bell  or  the  bell-pull  in  a  room  will 
summon  a  servant,  who  will  understand  that 
they  want  to  be  fed.  This  is  quite  different 
from  the  case  where  a  captive  animal  is  taught 
to  ring  a  bell  arranged  for  it,  as  is  sometimes 
done.  In  the  former  instance  the  cat  observes 
that  the  pulling  of  that  bell-handle  makes  noise, 
which  is  followed  by  the  appearance  of  a  ser- 
vant, who  has  the  means  to  gratify  its  wants. 
It  reasons :  "  If  somebody  opens  the  door  I  can 
get  in;  when  men  pull  that  handle  somebody 
does  open  the  door;  the  same  result  will  follow 
if  I  pull  the  handle;  therefore  I  will  do  so." 

The  most  characteristic  feature  in  the  feline 
nature,  probably,  is  the  practice  of  keeping  its 
half -dead  victims  under  its  paws  and  recaptur- 
^  266  £o» 


A  Kitten  at  School 

$ 

ing  them  again  and  again,  as  they  attempt  to 
escape,  before  finally  giving  them  their  quietus. 
Many  explanations  of  this  have  been  given, 
none  of  which  seem  to  me  very  satisfactory. 
Mr.  Romanes  refers  it  to  an  endowment  of  extra 
cruelty  in  the  feline  nature,  which  seems  to  me 
simply  begging  the  question.  I  am  inclined  to 
refer  it  to  the  animal's  enjoyment  of  play — 
its  living  victim  is  an  active  toy.  Few  cats 
ever  get  too  old  to  frolic  with  a  ball.  I  have 
seen  a  bulldog  become  enraged  almost  to  the 
point  of  insanity  over  a  struggle  with  a  stone 
globe  about  the  size  of  a  football.  It  is  proba- 
ble the  animal  thinks  it  alive.  Tigers  and  lions, 
when  they  are  enraged,  or  alarmed,  and  strike 
down  a  hunter,  do  not  hesitate  about  killing  him 
at  once — they  are  in  no  mood  for  play;  but 
domestic  cats  will  sometimes  catch  animals  they 
do  not  like  to  eat  just  for  the  fun  of  it.  An 
instance  in  point  was  reported  in  Science  Gossip 
(July,  1876),  as  follows:  "  We  had  a  cat  which 
was  very  fond  of  playing  with  frogs.  She 
would  hunt  about  the  garden  until  she  unearthed 
one,  and  pat  it  on  the  back  until  it  leaped  away 

+§  267  £o» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

with  a  loud  squeak.  I  have  often  observed  her 
doing  this,  but  on  no  occasion  did  she  attempt 
to  eat  the  frog,  and  I  never  could  discover  that 
she  injured  it  in  the  least." 

Moreover,  it  should  be  observed  that  this 
characteristic  feline  practice  seems  to  be  some- 
thing a  young  cat  is  taught  to  do  by  its  par- 
ents— at  any  rate  that  seemed  to  be  the  intent 
of  what  I  saw  going  on  over  the  fence  this 
morning.  The  mother-cat  brought  out  a  bone 
to  which  considerable  meat  was  attached,  and 
laid  it  down.  The  kitten  made  a  dash  at  it,  but 
was  driven  off.  Then  the  old  cat  approached 
the  bone  and  began  to  toy  with  it,  snatching 
at  it  with  its  fore  paws,  hopping  about,  and 
generally  behaving  as  nearly  as  possible  as  if 
the  bit  of  meat  were  a  living  prey.  After  a  lit- 
tle the  cat  stopped  this  and  lay  down  at  a  dis- 
tance, whereupon  the  kitten  approached  and 
clumsily  imitated  its  mother's  action.  A  second 
time  the  scene  was  rehearsed,  and  only  after 
this  lesson  was  Kitty  allowed  to  eat  her  meal 
as  she  pleased. 

Inherited  aptitude  for  its  special  training  is 

«•$  268  £•» 


A  Kitten  at  School 

r 

undoubtedly  there,  but  the  number  of  things 
which  an  animal  would  do  when  it  grew  up,  with- 
out the  training  by  and  imitation  of  its  parents 
in  its  youth,  is,  to  say  the  least,  much  smaller 
than  it  used  to  be  considered. 


269 


Catching  Menhaden  off  Montauk 


ONE  day  a  fishing-steamer  came  in  and  its 
captain  invited  me  to  go  with  him,  in 
search  of  menhaden,  off  Montauk  Point. 
This  promised  to  be  good  fun,  and  I  gladly  ac- 
cepted the  bid.  That  night  we  ran  across  the 
eastern  throat  of  Long  Island  Sound,  rounded 
Point  Judith  in  a  lively  breeze,  which  set  the 
little  vessel  dancing  gayly,  and  next  day  were 
back  again,  anchored  in  Gardiner's  Bay.  The 
wind  was  wrong,  or  something  else,  I  forget 
what,  but  at  any  rate  we  went  into  Greenport 
that  night,  and  postponed  fishing  until  the  follow- 
ing morning.  I  strolled  about  the  pretty  Long 
Island  village  until  bedtime,  and  then  went 
aboard,  for  we  were  to  be  off  at  daylight. 

What  an  exquisite  night  it  was!  The  air  was 
perfectly  calm,  the  moon  just  risen,  and  no  sound 
was  to  be  heard  save  the  ticking  of  that  mighty 
time-piece,  the  tide,  as  its  wavelets  swung  gently 


Catching  Menhaden  off  Montauk 

r 

back  and  forth  under  the  weedy  piers,  or  divided 
against  the  sharp  prows  of  the  smacks.  There 
was  light  enough  to  show  the  spars  and  ropes  of 
every  craft  in  the  harbor,  and  all  lay  as  motionless 
as  though  fixed  in  rock  rather  than  floating  on 
liquid. 

I  "  turned  in  "  upon  a  sofa  in  the  captain's  cabin ; 
and  when  I  emerged,  after  what  seemed  an  hour's 
pounding  on  my  door  by  the  chuggety-chugging 
engine,  we  were  far  down  Gardiner's  Bay  again. 

Last  night  the  unruffled  water  was  like  bronze; 
now,  under  the  soft  silvery  haze  of  the  morning, 
the  dancing  surface  became  frosted  silver,  opaque 
and  white  save  where  the  early  sunbeams,  striking 
through  the  mist,  were  reflected  from  the  crests  of 
the  ripples  in  glancing  ribbons  of  light.  Shelter 
Island  was  an  indistinguishable  mass  far  astern; 
Long  Beach  light  had  ceased  to  twinkle;  Orient 
Point  was  hidden  in  haze ;  Plumb  Island,  where 
eagles  used  to  make  their  metropolis,  and  many 
fish-hawks  now  live,  nesting  on  the  ground  with 
the  gulls,  was  only  a  low  bank  of  blue;  Gull  Is- 
lands could  not  be  seen  at  all;  and  I  only  knew 
that  Little  Gull  was  there  from  the  dot  in  the 
^271  fc> 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

horizon  made  by  its  lonely  lighthouse,  and  an 
occasional  gleam  imagined  to  be  the  surf  break- 
ing on  the  reefs  at  the  Race.  All  this  was  north- 
ward. Southward  the  wooded  bluffs  of  Gardi- 
ner's Island,  with  its  natural  breakwater  and 
lighthouse,  like  a  long  arm  reaching  out  between 
the  outer  and  the  inner  waters,  limited  the  view. 
But  this  was  soon  left  behind,  and  as  the  deep  in- 
dentation of  Napeaque  came  into  view,  the 
steamer's  head  was  turned  southeastward,  toward 
Montauk,  which,  in  the  growing  light,  now  stood 
out  plain  in  every  bleak  feature  of  sandy  dune 
and  treeless  moor. 

Now  a  very  sharp  lookout  must  be  kept  for 
fish,  and  after  the  substantial  breakfast  in  the 
forecastle,  I  climbed  half  way  up  the  shrouds. 
Even  then  I  could  not  look  across  Montauk,  but 
could  easily  see  two  great  ponds  of  fresh  water, 
which  nearly  serve  to  make  an  island  of  the  Point. 
One  of  them,  Fort  Pond,  was  once  a  scene  of  san- 
guinary Indian  warfare  between  the  Montauks 
and  Narragansetts,  the  latter  being  beaten  only 
by  help  from  the  Shelter  Island  Indians,  who 
drove  the  invaders  to  their  canoes.  At  that 
^  272  So 


Catching  Menhaden  off  Montauk 

r 

time  the  Montauks  were  the  most  powerful  of  all 
the  tribes  on  Long  Island,  and  appear  to  have 
been  unusually  upright  savages.  Their  country, 
Montauk  Point,  was  once  clothed  with  an  abun- 
dant forest,  but  the  clearing,  which  took  place  a 
century  and  a  half  ago,  has  never  been  replaced 
by  a  new  growth,  and  the  whole  space  is  now  a 
wild  waste  of  desolate  grass,  almost  uninhabited, 
and  rarely  visited  except  by  gunners  and  cran- 
berry-pickers. 

Off  Culloden  Point  the  lookout  excitedly  an- 
nounced, "Fish  off  the  port  bow!"  The  captain 
seized  his  glass  and  scanned  the  water.  So  did  I. 

"There's  a  big  bunch,"  he  shouts.  "Watch 
'em  flirt  their  tails!  Good  color!  See  how  red 
the  water  is?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  I  cry.  "  By  Jove,  that's 
a  good  color!" 

My  vacant  face  must  have  belied  my  words, 
but  he  didn't  notice  it.  He  was  shouting: 

"  Lower  away  the  boats !  Stand  by  to  ship  the 
nets!"  furiously  ringing  signals  to  the  engineer, 
giving  hasty  orders  to  the  wheelsman,  ensconcing 
himself  in  a  pair  of  oilskin  trousers  so  capacious 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

I  half  expected  he  would  disappear  altogether; 
and  so,  amid  the  roar  of  escaping  steam,  the 
creaking  of  davit  tackle,  the  laughing  excitement 
of  the  crews,  and  the  rattle  of  rowlocks,  I  tumbled 
head-foremost  into  a  boat,  and  the  steamer  was 
left  behind.  Now  the  flirting  of  tiny  tails  was 
plainly  visible,  but  I  must  confess  that  I  did  not 
learn  to  distinguish  the  reddish  hue  which  indi- 
cates a  school  of  these  fish  until  much  later  in 
the  day. 

The  two  large  boats  side  by  side  were  sculled 
rapidly  toward  the  shore  where  the  fish  were  seen, 
the  forward  part  of  each  boat  piled  full  of  the 
brown  seine,  which  extended  in  a  great  festoon 
from  one  to  the  other.  There  were  four  men  in 
each  boat,  all  standing  up,  and  in  our  red  shirts 
and  shiny  yellow  oilskin  overalls,  we  must  have 
made  a  pretty  picture  on  that  sunny  morning. 
Close  by  was  a  pound  net,  where  a  porpoise  was 
rolling  gayly,  notwithstanding  his  captivity,  but 
by  maneuvering  we  got  the  "bunch"  turned 
away  from  it  and  well  inshore  where  the  water 
was  not  too  deep.  At  last  we  were  close  to  them, 
and  now  came  a  scene  of  excitement. 
274  &o 


Catching  Menhaden  off  Montauk 

r 

"  Heave  it ! "  yelled  the  captain,  and  in  each  boat 
a  sailor  whose  place  it  was  worked  like  a  steam- 
engine,  throwing  the  net  overboard,  while  the 
crews  pulled  with  all  their  muscles  in  opposite 
directions  around  a  circle  perhaps  a  hundred 
yards  in  diameter,  and  defined  by  the  line  of  cork 
buoys  left  behind,  which  should  inclose  the  fish. 
In  three  minutes  the  boats  were  together  again, 
the  net  was  all  paid  out  and  an  enormous  weight 
of  lead  had  been  cast  over,  drawing  after  it  a 
line  rove  through  rings  along  the  bottom  of  the 
seine.  The  effect,  of  course,  was  instantly  to 
pucker  the  bottom  of  the  net  into  a  purse,  and 
thus,  before  the  bunkers  had  fairly  apprehended 
their  danger,  they  were  caught  in  a  bag  whose  in- 
visible folds  held  a  cubic  acre  or  two  of  water. 
"  Bunker  "  is  one  of  the  many  so  called  names  of 
the  fish  known  in  books  as  menhaden. 

This  was  sport!  None  of  the  fish  were  to  be 
seen.  Every  fin  of  them  had  discreetly  sunk  to 
the  bottom.  Whether  we  had  caught  ten  or  ten 
thousand  remained  to  be  proved.  Now,  lifting 
such  a  net  is  no  easy  job.  The  weight  of  nearly 
ten  thousand  square  yards  of  seine,  alone,  is  im- 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

mense,  but  when  it  is  saturated  with  cold  sea- 
water,  and  held  back  by  the  pushing  of  thousands 
of  energetic  little  noses,  to  pull  it  into  a  rocking 
boat,  implies  very  hard  work.  However,  little  by 
little  it  came  over  the  gunwales,  the  first  thing 
being  to  bring  up  the  ponderous  sinker  and  as- 
certain that  the  closing  of  the  purse  at  the  bot- 
tom had  been  properly  executed.  Yard  by  yard 
the  cork  line  was  contracted,  and  one  after  an- 
other frightened  captives  began  to  appear,  some 
folded  into  a  wrinkle  of  the  twine,  or  caught  by 
the  gills  in  a  torn  mesh  (and  such  were  thrown 
back),  until  at  last  the  bag  was  reduced  to  only 
a  few  yards  in  diameter,  and  the  menhaden  were 
seen,  a  sheeny,  gray,  struggling  mass,  which 
bellied  out  the  net  under  the  cork  line  and  under 
the  boats,  in  vain  anxiety  to  pass  the  curious  bar- 
rier which  on  every  side  hemmed  them  in,  and  in 
leaping  efforts  to  escape  the  crowding  of  their 
thronging  fellows.  How  they  gleamed,  like  fish 
of  jewels  and  gold !  The  sunshine  finding  its  way 
down  through  the  clear  green  water  seemed  not 
to  reflect  from  their  iridescent  scales,  but  to  pene- 
trate them  all,  and  illumine  their  bodies  from 

^276  £» 


Catching  Menhaden  off  Montauk 

r 

within  with  a  wonderful  changing  flame.  Gleam- 
ing, shifting,  lambent  waves  of  color  flashed  and 
paled  before  my  entranced  eyes — gray,  as  the  fishes 
turned  their  backs,  sweeping  brightly  back  with 
a  thousand  brilliant  tints  as  they  showed  their 
sides — soft,  undefined,  and  mutable,  down  there 
under  the  green  glass  of  the  sea;  while,  to  show 
them  the  better,  myriads  of  minute  medusae  car- 
ried hither  and  thither  glittering  little  phosphores- 
cent lanterns  in  gossamer  frames  and  transparent 
globes. 

All  possible  slack  having  now  been  taken  in,  the 
steamer  approaches,  and  towing  us  away  to  deeper 
water,  for  we  are  drifting  toward  a  lee  shore, 
comes  to  a  standstill,  and  the  work  of  loading 
begins.  The  cork  line  is  lifted  up  and  made  fast 
to  the  steamer's  bulwarks,  to  which  the  boats  have 
already  attached  themselves  at  one  end,  holding 
together  at  the  other.  This  crowds  all  the  bunk- 
ers together  in  a  mass  between  the  two  boats  and 
the  steamer's  side,  where  the  water  boils  with  the 
churning  of  thousands  of  active  fins.  A  twenty- 
foot  oar  is  plunged  into  the  mass,  but  will  not 
suffice  to  sound  its  living  depths.  Then  a  great 

+§  277  £o» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

dipper  of  strong  netting  on  an  iron  hoop  is  let 
down  by  tackle  from  the  yard-arm,  dipped  into 
the  mass  under  the  guidance  of  a  man  on  deck 
who  holds  the  handle,  the  pony  engine  puffs  and 
shakes,  and  away  aloft  for  an  instant  swings  a 
mass  of  bunkers,  only  to  be  upset  and  fall  like 
so  much  sparkling  water  into  the  resounding  hold. 

"How  many  fish  does  the  dipper  lift  out  at 
once?" 

"About  a  thousand." 

"Very  well.  I  will  count  how  many  times  it 
goes  after  a  load." 

But  I  didn't.  I  forgot  it  in  looking  down  the 
hatchway. 

The  floor  of  the  shallow  hold  was  paved  with 
animated  silver,  and  every  new  addition  falling 
in  a  lovely  cataract  from  far  overhead,  seemed  to 
shatter  a  million  rainbows  as  it  struck  the  yielding 
mass  below  and  slid  away  on  every  side  to  glitter 
in  a  new  iridescence  until  another  myriad  of  dia- 
monds rained  down. 

If  you  take  it  in  your  hand,  the  moss-bunker 
presents  itself  as  an  ordinary-looking  fish,  and 
you  do  not  admire  it;  but  every  gleaming,  fiery 

*S  278  5o» 


Catching  Menhaden  off  Montauk 

r 

tint  that  ever  burned  in  a  sunset,  or  tinged  a  gem- 
crystal,  or  painted  the  petals  of  a  flower,  was  cast 
in  lovely  confusion  into  that  dark  hold.  There 
lay  the  raw  materials  of  beauty — the  gorgeous 
elements  out  of  which  dyes  are  resolved :  abstract 
bits  of  lustrous  azure  and  purple,  crimson  and 
gold,  and  those  indefinable  greenish  and  pearly 
tints  that  make  the  luminous  background  of  all 
celestial  sun-painting.  As  the  steamer  rolled  on 
the  billows,  and  the  sun  struck  the  wet  and  trem- 
ulous mass  at  this  and  that  angle,  or  the  whole 
was  in  the  half-shadow  of  the  deck,  now  a  cerulean 
tint,  now  a  hot  brazen  glow,  would  spread  over  all 
for  an  instant,  until  the  wriggling  mixture  of  olive 
backs  and  pearly  bellies  and  nacreous  sides,  with 
scarlet  blood-spots  where  the  cruel  twine  had 
wounded,  was  buried  beneath  a  new  stratum. 

"  How  many?  "  I  asked,  when  all  were  in. 

"Hundred  and  ten  thousand,"  replied  Captain 
Hawkins.  "Pretty  fair,  but  I  took  three  times 
as  many  at  one  haul  last  week." 

"What  are  they  worth?" 

"  Oh,  something  over  a  hundred  dollars.     Hard 
a-starboard!  go  ahead  slow." 
^  279  $+> 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 
r 

Then  the  labor  of  the  engines  drowned  the  spat , 
spat,  spat,  of  the  myriad  of  restless  little  tails  strug- 
gling to  swim  out  of  their  strange  prison,  while  I 
climbed  to  the  masthead  to  talk  with  the  grizzly 
old  lookout,  who  had  been  round  Cape  Horn 
thirteen  times,  yet  did  not  think  himself  much  of 
a  traveler. 

That  day  we  caught  250,000  fish  and  made  a 
round  trip  of  a  hundred  miles,  going  away  outside 
of  Montauk  Point,  where  it  was  frightfully  rough 
after  a  two  days'  easterly  gale.  Pyramids  and 
ridges  of  water,  huge  and  irresistible,  green  as 
liquid  malachite,  traveled  in  turbulent  haste  to 
magnificent  destruction  on  the  beach,  where  sun- 
lit clouds  of  spray  were  floating  dense  and  high, 
and  the  roar  of  the  surf  came  grandly  to  our  ears 
wherever  we  went,  Yet  the  difficulties  were  none 
too  great  for  these  hardy  fishermen,  who  balanced 
themselves  in  their  cockleshells,  and  rose  and 
sank  with  the  huge  billows,  without  losing  their 
hold  upon  the  seines,  or  permitting  a  single 
wretched  bunker  to  escape. 


280 


Gull  Dick 

r 

DICK  was  a  herring-gull  that  first  began 
to  be  noticed  around  the  lightship  which 
warns    vessels    away    from    Brenton's 
Reef, — a  ledge  of  dangerous  rocks  two  miles 
off  the   harbor   of  Newport,  Rhode   Island, — 
a  place  of  perils  that  will  long  be  remembered  by 
the  gallant   story   of  "  Grace  Darling "    (Ida 
Lewis),  who  lived  there  in  the  little  lighthouse 
she  made  famous. 

As  the  lightship  rolls  and  sways  and  tosses 
in  the  midst  of  never-quiet  surges,  her  crew  in 
their  loneliness  observe  keenly  many  things  that 
on  land  would  escape  their  attention.  It  was 
thus  that  Dick  came  to  be  noticed  one  day 
among  a  flock  of  lively  companions  wheeling 
and  curveting  over  the  waves  that  rose  and  fell 
upon  the  cruel  ledges — noticed  day  after  day, 
because  he  seemed  so  much  older  and  more  fee- 
ble than  his  younger  and  gayer  companions. 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

The  sailors  began  to  toss  bits  of  food  where 
he  could  snatch  them  up  before  some  rival  could 
get  ahead  of  him,  and  Dick  soon  understood  the 
game  and  was  ready  to  play  his  part. 

This  went  on  for  twenty  years,  but  the  crew 
of  the  lightship,  changing  year  by  year,  passed 
along  the  tradition  to  the  new  hands,  so  that 
although  by  this  time  not  a  man  was  left  of 
those  who  had  first  known  the  bird,  yet  all  were 
his  friends,  and  looked  for  his  arrival  as 
eagerly,  perhaps,  as  he  anticipated  his  return 
to  the  place  where  he  was  fed. 

All  our  gulls  are  now  winter  visitors  to  the 
southern  New  England  coast.  Originally  her- 
ring-gulls bred  there  on  the  outer  islets,  but  one 
of  the  bad  effects  of  civilization  has  been  to 
exterminate  the  breeding  colonies  or  drive  them 
to  more  thinly  settled  northern  shores,  to  lay 
their  eggs  and  rear  their  young  in  security. 

Dick  was  never  seen  in  the  summer,  therefore, 
but  with  unfailing  regularity  on  some  fine  morn- 
ing in  the  first  week  of  October  he  would  reap- 
pear— always  in  the  morning,  for  these  birds  per- 
form their  migratory  journeys  mainly  at  night. 
*>$  282  £»» 


Gull  Dick 

r 

Nobody  could  say  where  he  had  been,  of  course ; 
but  he  almost  always  showed  signs  of  wear  and 
tear,  as  if  from  contests  with  gales  that  had 
torn  feathers  from  wings  and  tail,  and  seemed 
tired  and  hungry,  as  if  a  very  long  flight  had 
just  been  finished.  No  wonder,  then,  that  he 
came  straight  to  the  lightship,  and  hovered 
about  it  in  pleased  expectation  of  rest  and  the 
full  breakfast  that  never  failed  him. 

One  day  in  1891  an  ornithologist,  Mr.  George 
H.  McKay,  discovered  what  these  good  sailor- 
men  had  known  for  twenty  years,  and  straight- 
way the  comings  and  goings  of  Gull  Dick  began 
to  be  regularly  reported  and  discussed  in  The 
Auk,  quite  as  if  he  were  a  real  Newport  "  swell." 

Every  morning  at  sunrise,  when  the  great 
lanterns  at  the  masthead  were  lowered,  Dick 
would  take  it  as  a  signal,  and  be  seen  flying 
steadily  toward  the  little  vessel  from  the  rocks, 
two  miles  away,  where  he  had  spent  the  night 
roosting  in  some  snug  crevice.  If  now  and  then 
he  was  not  in  sight,  one  of  the  crew  had  only 
to  call  or  whistle  a  minute  or  two,  when  the 
knowing  bird  would  appear,  and  wait  on  the 

So- 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

alert  for  the  breakfast  soon  to  be  tossed  to 
him. 

Other  gulls  would  come,  too,  but  none  would 
ever  approach  so  near  as  Dick,  although  even 
he  never  alighted  upon  the  vessel  nor  allowed 
himself  to  be  handled.  He  liked  boiled  pork 
best,  but  did  not  object  to  fish ;  and  it  was  amaz- 
ing to  see  the  famished  eagerness  with  which, 
in  the  first  few  days  of  the  season,  the  bird 
would  eat,  gulping  down  whole  six  or  eight 
pieces  each  the  size  of  a  hen's  egg. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  this  voracity  was  not 
altogether  hunger,  but  partly  greediness;  for 
Dick  would  usually  do  his  best  to  keep  any 
other  gull  in  the  neighborhood  from  getting 
not  only  what  was  meant  for  him,  but  morsels 
thrown  to  his  companions,  "  making  the  great- 
est possible  fuss,"  says  the  captain,  "  if  one 
of  the  other  gulls  attempted  to  secure  an  occa- 
sional piece."  Once,  he  relates,  Dick  seized  an 
aggressive  rival  by  the  neck  and  tore  out  its 
feathers  until  the  poor  creature  was  glad  to  get 
away  with  his  life. 

This,  I  fear,  is  a  way  the  gulls  have  all  over 


Gull  Dick 

r 

the  world.  They  are  social  creatures  rather 
from  motives  of  economy  than  of  good-will,  I 
suspect,  for  many  eyes  can  sweep  a  range  of 
beach  or  tide-flat  or  a  space  of  water  better 
than  a  single  pair ;  and  when  one  discovers  any 
food  his  actions  will  at  once  let  the  rest  know 
of  it,  and  then  there  is  a  rush,  for  at  the  gulls' 
table  the  rule  is  first  come,  first  served. 

Gulls  feed  on  anything  and  everything  eata- 
ble, apparently,  and  many  go  far  inland  for 
food  at  certain  times;  but  carrion  and  fish 
thrown  up  on  the  beach  or  embayed  in  some  lit- 
tle tide-pool,  sandworms,  small  crabs  and  mol- 
lusks,  form  their  principal  fare.  The  floating 
carcass  of  a  whale  is  always  covered  with  them ; 
and  the  garbage-scows  that  go  out  from  the 
harbor  of  New  York  to  throw  the  refuse  of  the 
city  into  the  ocean  are  always  accompanied  in 
winter  by  so  great  a  cloud  of  these  birds  that 
the  scows  themselves  are  sometimes  almost  in- 
visible. 

They  do  not  catch  living  food  by  diving  after 
it,  or  chasing  it  under  water,  as  do  some  sea- 
birds,  but  trust  to  the  surface  to  supply  them, 
«•$  285  £•» 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

pouncing  down  in  a  beautiful  curve  when  they 
espy  anything  eatable,  and  deftly  snatching  it 
up  without  actually  touching  the  water.  Where 
time  and  place  favor  they  will  "  run  about  the 
fields  like  rooks,  busying  themselves  with  the 
capture  of  insects,  slugs  and  worms  " ;  and  will 
even  catch  mice  and  small  birds  if  they  can,  and 
devour  them — bones,  fur,  feathers  and  all. 
They  may  even  be  taught  to  live  wholly  on 
grain,  and  in  such  cases  the  stomach  is  modified 
into  an  organ  closely  like  a  fowl's  gizzard. 

The  habit  of  rough  warfare  has  developed  a 
great  deal  of  courage  in  the  bird,  which  will 
fight  bravely  in  defense  of  its  nest  or  young, 
and  often  boldly  assails  a  person  who  has  just 
shot  a  companion. 

That  gulls  are  keen-witted  is  plain  not  only 
to  one  who  watches  them  in  freedom,  but  from 
their  behavior  as  pets.  Various  kinds  have  been 
easily  domesticated,  and  this  is  in  itself  a  testi- 
mony to  intelligence,  for  it  is  not  easy  to  make 
a  pet  of  a  stupid  creature. 

All  accounts  agree  that  captive  gulls  know 
and  take  an  interest  in  those  who  show  them  at- 
^286  £» 


Gull  Dick 

r 

tention;  and  that  if  they  fly  away  they  are 
pretty  sure  to  return  again  and  again,  and  per- 
haps will  bring  a  mate  or  young  ones  with  them. 

In  the  light  of  these  facts  the  acquaintance 
between  the  men  of  Brenton's  Reef  lightship 
and  Gull  Dick  is  no  longer  singular,  although  it 
remains  interesting.  All  winter  he  would  linger 
about  the  lightship,  taking  the  raising  of  the 
lanterns  as  a  signal  to  come  and  get  his  supper, 
after  which  he  would  fly  away  to  his  customary 
roost  on  Beaver's-tail  until  sunrise. 

About  April  6th  he  would  be  seen  for  the  last 
time  that  season,  usually  remaining  until  night- 
fall of  the  last  day.  "  It  would  seem,"  Captain 
Fogarty  records  for  1892,  "that  Dick  is  in- 
clined to  have  company  during  his  migration 
this  time,  for  he  brought  another  gull  with  him 
to  jointly  partake  of  the  supper  provided,  then 
both  went  away  together."  In  1894,  his  twenty- 
third  return,  a  companion  came  with  him,  but 
Dick  would  not  let  him  share  even  the  first 
breakfast;  and  in  1895  he  went  away  again, 
attended  by  a  young  gull,  "  after  a  hearty 
supper." 


The  Wit  of  the  Wild 

r 

On  October  2,  1895,  Dick  appeared  for  the 
twenty-fourth  and  last  time,  and  instead  of  be- 
ing ragged  and  torn,  as  usual,  he  now  looked 
sleek,  had  all  his  proper  feathers,  and  was  in 
excellent  spirits,  fighting  off  every  attempt  to 
share  the  lightship's  bounty.  After  braving 
all  the  winter  storms,  he  said  good-by  again  on 
April  7,  1896,  and  has  not  since  been  seen.  I 
dare  say  Gull  Dick  is  dead. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

BIOLOGY  LIBRARY 

TEL.  NO.  642-2532 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 


UU  »  2  0  **iL 

f>AlPl* 

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L^T/O 

'^TERUBRARY  M 

)AFf 

^  IM/  o  ^  r<" 

,vf 

Cj)U   i  ^o  j 

DOT  2     1972 

OCT131972 

LD21A-6m-3,'72 
(Qll73slO)476-A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


383459 


JJfe-* 

ife 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


